Left to Chance
by moon maiden of time
Summary: It was not love. It was...just mere fascination. Really. ErikRaoul
1. Chapter 1

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 1**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time #13- heads or tails, you lose; dice; ace**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually) **  
Rating: **PG**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

"Oh, it's so lovely!" Christine said, spinning into the room. Raoul laughed slightly, following her. She continued spinning joyfully, laughing at random intervals. It may have seemed strange to somebody who did not know the circumstances.

The circumstances were these:

Six months ago, the Opera Populaire had been totally gutted out, burned completely on the inside from a fire. The cause of the fire: a crusade.

Raoul, the only patron of the Opera Populaire, had immediately found people to rebuild it. He couldn't have just left it to die.

Construction had finally finished. The Opera Populaire was set to open back up to all its employees in a matter of days. In a month or two, it would be open to the public, performing in all its glory once again.

Christine would be going back there soon.

She stopped spinning and faced Raoul, her dress still swishing lightly. "I am so happy, Raoul. I will be back there soon." Her face lit up

Raoul came forward, captured one hand, and pulled her into a slow waltz. "And you, little Lottie, will be back to singing to your heart's content."

Slowly, the light on her face flickered and then disappeared. "I have to wonder Raoul…Is He still there?"

They stopped. She had no need to actually say what she meant. Raoul understood. _He_ meant her teacher. _He_ meant that monster. _He_ meant the Phantom. Raoul stepped back and tilted her chin up.

She shouldn't have had to have wondered. There had been no "accidental" deaths to any of the construction workers. That said everything. Of course, Raoul had told the workers that if they went any farther then they had to, if they went into the maze in the basement, he would kill them if they did not get murdered already. But Christine did not know that.

"Why do you wonder, little Lottie?"

She turned her eyes away. "…He was my teacher and friend for so many years. I have to know if He is still alive."

Raoul frowned and grabbed her arms. "You are not going down there Christine."

It wasn't that he feared the Phantom getting to her, oh no. He knew the Phantom would not hurt her. What he feared was her falling into a trap. Something that she wouldn't be able to get out of. Something she couldn't handle.

She pulled herself away from him, brow furrowed. "But I must know Raoul!" She twisted her hands together. "And if I can not go down there, who can? Who will?"

…Oh, he knew what had to say to stop her worrying. Damn his loyalty to her. They may have not been engaged or married, but he did still love her on some level. He laid a hand on hers calmingly. "I can, Christine."

Her hands stopped; her face went white. "If He is still alive, he will kill you."

"I will be fine. I have run into him once and did not die." It was almost said with a happy tone.

Her eyes went wide as she looked up at him. "But Raoul…"

"Fine," he said, going over to a drawer. He pulled one open and reached in. When he turned back to her, he held a pair of dice. "Let us leave it to chance. If you roll an even number, I will not go down there and you will never know. If you roll an odd number, I will go down there and find out for you."

He held them out to her.

"Raoul…" she protested. He just stretched his arm out a little further. Slowly, hesitantly, she took the dice. Then, shutting her eyes, she let them fall.

A five. A four. Odd, then.

She looked up at him, silent. Her face was white with the exception to two red spots on her cheeks. "Raoul…" she whispered.

Only feeling vaguely amused, Raoul shrugged. "It seems I will go then. Let me wait until Madame Giry gets back. I can ask her where I can find him then."

Still twisting her hands together, Christine bowed her head and walked out of the room.

Raoul let himself fall ungracefully into a chair and looked up at the ceiling. Well. This would be interesting, to say the least. If he were lucky, the Phantom would be dead. If he were not...it would not matter then.


	2. Chapter 2

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 2**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time #25- maillot; paradox**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually) **  
Rating: **PG**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Raoul stopped. This was where the employees had directed him. The ballerinas' quarters. Meg Giry's quarters. He knocked. A pause. His brow furrowed when there was no answer. He had been told that the ballerinas did not have practice for a few more days. He had also been told that Madame Giry and Meg had come back to the Opera Populaire. 

He knocked again. "Excuse me," he called. "Mademoiselle Giry?" Another knock.

When there was no answer, he shrugged and opened the door. There were many beds, clothes, boxes, and…

All he saw before a piece of clothing flew at him was pale skin and a delicate curve of the female body. A shriek pierced the air as he slammed the door shut.

He frowned as he pulled the clothing off him. Why hadn't anyone answered? It would have saved them both some trouble. He looked down at his hands. Ballet tights. They threw ballet tights at him?

His cheeks dusted with light pink when he realized that he had glimpsed one of the ballerinas. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen a female body—intimately, that is—before. It was just…the ballerina—if she felt offended enough—could go to the public with this and demand some sort of compensation. It could turn into a scandal.

He groaned.

Then the door opened. He looked up, only to meet the chagrinned blue eyes of little Meg Giry.

He suppressed another groan. That only made it worse. Christine's friend! Meg turned red as she muttered, "I am sorry, Monsieur Vicomte. If I had only answered…" She looked up.

"It doesn't matter," Raoul cut in. Almost dryly, "These are yours, I believe?" as he lifted his hand, ballet tights laying there.

She let out a squeak as she snatched them out of his hand and hid them behind her back. "I am so sorry," she started again.

Raoul raised a hand. "It is not your fault."

She gave an embarrassed grin as she reached up with her free hand to start fiddling with a lock of golden hair.

"May I come in?" he asked.

She looked down shyly and then nodded quickly, moving back to let him in the room. She scurried away for a moment, towards the back of the room, as he looked around.

There were many beds. All over the place, beds, beds, beds. Christine had probably slept in one of those beds. He drew a finger along a coarse blanket. Maybe she had slept there, in those sheets.

"Vicomte?"

He looked back at Meg, a light grin on his face. "Mademoiselle—Meg—you know about the Phantom, do you not?"

The bright amusement in her eyes changed to a wary, searching look. "Yes."

He sat on the bed closest to him. "You were in fact the one to guide the people to him, were you not?"

She glanced away. Her mouth gave a twitch down as if trying to frown, but she forced it into a neutral expression. "You as well as I know that the Phantom was never found."

His expression lit up in faux enlightenment. "Ah, yes, of course." He looked at her, searching. "That is why I come to you. You are the daughter of Madame Giry. You know the answer to what I ask." He paused. "Is the Phantom still alive?"

Her eyes darkened as she snapped a glance at him. Just like her mother, of course. She would lie if it meant saving Him.

"Do not lie to me," he warned. "I only ask for Christine's sake."

She sighed as she sat on the bed next to him. Fingers of one hand were still tangled in her hair, fiddling still. "I do not know. Mama has gone down and can not find him. He has not contacted her."

His lips twitched down a bit. That insane genius— dead? No! He would not believe it unless he saw it! The madman was probably in hiding somewhere.

He murmured, "I do not wish to harm him." Acting in self-defense, of course, was a completely different matter. "If he is alive, I want to call a truce. I want to make sure what has happened will not happen again."

Meg looked down for a moment before glancing back up. "You will have to talk to Mama. She can lead you down to the cellars. She wishes I would not go down there." There was a tone of petulance in the last statement.

"Mama will be back to tomorrow. She had business today." There was a sort of slyness in her expression when she looked at him again. "Are you really going to make a truce?"

Raoul stood. "If I can." He gave a nod to her and walked out.

Tomorrow…Tomorrow he would go down into those cellars again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 3**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time #20- take it in your stride; walk**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually) **  
Rating: **PG**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

With the exception of the crunch of gravel beneath their feet, it was silent. The lantern Madame Giry carried made the almost monstrous shadows skitter away from them. Raoul glanced over the edge of the banister. It was so far. They had to go five cellars down.

Madame Giry paused and murmured, "Keep your hand at the level of your eye, Monsieur Vicomte. It would be unwise if you didn't." Madame Giry's hand was already up, a signal that they were getting closer and closer to the deep pit that harbored the Phantom.

He followed her advice, hand flat, palm facing in. They continued.

Eventually, she asked a question he knew must have been irritating her. "Why do you seek out the Phantom?" Her sharp gaze slanted towards him. "You have Christine. He has not harmed you or anybody else."

Raoul let out what usually would have been an inaudible sigh. As it was just the two of them in the echoing stairs, the sigh amplified in sound and echoed back to them. He flinched slightly at the noise. "Christine wants to know if he is still alive."

Even with the meager light, he saw her eyes widen the tiniest fraction. "She once claimed to hate him. That hate has faded away though. She remembers that he had been a friend and teacher for years. She merely wants to know." One dark eyebrow rose as she glanced at him. "I also want a truce. I want no more deaths caused by him."

A soft, almost sardonic, laugh came from her. "You think he will be persuaded to agree to a truce?"

His hand, still suspended at the level of his eyes, clenched into a fist for a moment. "I can only hope he does."

Madame Giry paused again, turning to stare at him. The lantern she held threw ghastly shadows over the planes of her face and darkened her eyes. "Is that the only thing you want from seeking him out?"

Yes. Wait…almost. There was also his music…that haunting, horrid, beautiful music he had composed…and that hauntingly horridly beautiful voice…

"Of course," Raoul murmured, shame heating his cheeks. "What other reason would I seek him out?"

Her eyes searched his face. Then she spun around, the lantern chasing away the lurid shadows, and started walking again. "There are many reasons you could be searching him out." Her shoulders moved up in a shrug. "How am I to know your reasons? I am merely a simple ballet teacher. You, however, are a…," she trailed off and then paused. "How did he put it? Ah. 'An unsurprisingly infuriating Vicomte,' was what he called you."

Raoul had to stop and gape at her back. Had he really…? When it registered that she was still walking, he ran to catch up. "The Phantom called me that?"

Madame Giry let out a soft chuckle. "What else would he call you? You had been inadvertently sabotaging his plans to make Christine his."

Raoul sighed again, uncaring of the noise it created. "Yes, well, he has sabotaged _my_ plans with her."

He caught the edge of her smile. "How so? You are alive. She is above ground." Another shrug of her slim shoulders.

"Christine refused to marry me, however," he reminded her.

"Was it really because of him?"

Raoul was so very ready to shout out, "YES!", but he stopped himself. Had it? Maybe. Christine's only explanation was that she didn't love him, that he wasn't _the one_. If the Phantom was _the one_, then yes, yes, it was his fault. But if the Phantom wasn't…

Raoul brushed away those thoughts. "I can not say," he answered her. "There is a probability that he was the reason why she decided to not marry me."

She made a contemplative noise. "You are both alive and well. You should be happy even though you are not married." She stopped on the bottom step and turned to look at him. "Really, the both of you should be as far away from the Opera Populaire as possible. You should not be seeking out the one man that would love to harm you."

"He may be dead though!" Raoul said fiercely. "Meg said that you did not know if he were alive or dead."

Madame Giry looked down. "I do not know." Her eyes came up sharply and stared him head on again. "If he is still alive though, you may be the one to bring him out. Vengeance's call is sweet. Especially for one such as him."

She started walking again, shoes crunching the gravel that littered the ground. Raoul followed her, body tense, eyes wary. One hand was in the air, at the level of his eyes, the other at his side, fingers grasping the handle of his sword.

They were in the Phantom's lair.


	4. Chapter 4

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 4**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time ()**  
Theme: **#15- take a hint; scram!**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually) **  
Rating: **PG**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

His breath left him slowly as he looked around the Phantom's home. He remembered it as he had last seen it. It had been beautiful and terrifying, yet almost otherworldly. The only light had been the golden glow of the thousands of candles and the silvery luminescence of the lake. The light had cast shadows over many covered objects, looking like strange hunched figures. The only thing clearly seen was the beautiful large organ, papers covered in inked notes strewn about it.

The place held only a glimmer of what beauty it had. Now it was more terrifying and more otherworldly than Raoul would ever want to see it. Only a few of the thousands of candles were lit, their light sputtering and flickering. Most of the light came from the glow of the lake and Madame Giry's lantern. That light flickered along the surface of mirrors. Mirrors were all over the place, sharp shards sticking out along the frames, light dancing and glimmering over them. The organ, that beautiful large organ, was hiding beneath mounds of paper, the ink on them smeared.

Their steps echoed as they walked along, gravel and shards of many mirrors crunching under foot. "Monsieur?" he called. Madame Giry's gaze snapped over to him, eyes settling heavy on him. "Monsieur?"

In the shadows something stepped, gravel slowly crunching. Raoul whipped around, eyes searching and finally landing on a thin slice of light. The light was dancing over the veneer of a white opera mask. It was Him! He was alive!

Raoul took a quick step forward…but a Punjab came around his neck and raised hand and pulled him into the chest of a stone hard body.

An angry hiss: "What are you doing here, Vicomte?"

Raoul looked over the best he could. It was… His eyes narrowed. If it were the Phantom trying to strangle him, then what was a mask doing just floating in the shadows? Just floating of course, there to catch and reflect light to distract trespassers. Just another trap.

At least you're not choking this time, he told himself.

"Erik!" Madame Giry's voice cracked like a whip. "Do not kill him. He is only here for a truce."

The hand not holding the Punjab came up and grabbed his chin. He was forced to turn and look at the Phantom. The black hair was not slicked back and impeccable like before, but greasy and long and all over the place. The mouth was still an angry scowl, the eyes still hard glints of golden-green. The mask, of course, was still too blank, too perfect, compared to its human counterpart.

The Phantom chuckled. "And why should I make a truce with you, Vicomte?" The fingers on his face turned into claws and dug in. "You stole my one chance at happiness." Bitterness and cruelty slicked the words and made them sink easily into Raoul's mind.

"I am the only patron of the Opera Populaire," he reminded. "If I leave, you lose both your pay and your home."

Those strange eyes turned cool and appraised him. "Even though you are an idiotic fop, Vicomte, you do know your business." He was always going to be insulted by this man, wasn't he? The Punjab tightened the tiniest bit, reminding him of his place. "What are your terms?"

Raoul's eyes widened. The Phantom was actually going to make a truce with him? He wet his lips. "You are not to kill anybody unless they come into your cellars." The one eyebrow he could see quirked upwards. "The people you will allow down will be Madame Giry, Mademoiselle Giry, and Mademoiselle Daae."

"I will not agree to that second term. Both Madame Giry and the little Giry have helped me so they are allowed. But Christine…" Anger sat in the corners of his mouth like a secret. "She may come at the wrong time, and I will lose my temper." A hard look was aimed at him.

Raoul sighed. He was more than okay with. It would keep Christine safe. "Fine. The only other thing is that you will only receive your pay if you continue to compose music."

The Phantom's eyes went wide and looked at him with wonder. And then that wonder morphed into anger. "Why would you want me to continue? Is it to make a mockery of me once more?" The Punjab was pulled. Despite his wrist stopping the rope, Raoul could feel the tightness in his throat.

"No. You do not have to present it to anybody." The elite in Paris society had not appreciated it. The world probably could not. Even though it was wonderful and magnificent, it was too much for the jaded societies of the world. Maybe one day the world could appreciate it and love it, like he did.

His voice became slick and sly again. "And how will you know that I have composed anything?"

Ah. Raoul had not thought of that. Finally, he truthfully said, "I will not."

Confusion settled uncertainly in the Phantom's eyes. "You are a fool," he retorted without bite.

Raoul shrugged as best as he could. He already knew that. Philippe had always called it being "too trustworthy". Others, like the Phantom, called it foolish.

The Punjab came up around his neck and hand and disappeared. He whirled around only to see the Phantom retreating in the shadows, the dark red rope of the Punjab trailing behind him. "I will accept your terms, Vicomte," he said. "Just remember…" Light glinted off the opera mask and off the shards of gold in his eyes. "You are not allowed down here again."

Raoul stared. He had really thought that if he had found the Phantom, he would have died. It was very…disorienting the way things had happened.

A hand landed on his shoulder, startling him. Madame Giry raised a questioning eyebrow at him and then turned around, starting the walk back up to the Opera house. Raoul looked back at the shadows once. He caught sight of the faintest glimmer of gold and then slowly started to make his way back up the stairs.


	5. Chapter 5

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 5**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#24- the puppet master; strings; control freak**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually) **  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Oh, that infuriating imbecile! Erik stalked around the cavernous room, the Punjab still clenched in one fist. He had originally thought that that fop had absolutely no brains underneath all that blonde hair. He started unconsciously grinding his teeth. And now, the one moment where Erik would have loved to see conclusive evidence of the Vicomte's stupidity, the idiot had to show a smidgen of an iota of intelligence.

Erik, still scowling, tossed the Punjab away and actually sat down at the organ. With a few furious sweeps of his arms, the inked papers covering the organ flew away. His hands flew up, fingers poised and ready, and yet, he hesitated. Agitatedly, he picked at the few papers still littering the organ.

In the days after Christine's betrayal, the music had been pained and saddened, a heart wrenching sound of weeping coming from organ keys. It had only taken days for that sadness to morph into anger. Anger at himself, anger at her, anger at the fop that had stolen her…

Then the music had deserted him. For the months that had spanned the reconstruction of his opera house, a blankness had descended upon him. He had dealt with fury and melancholy and depression before but never that cold blankness. With the exception of the indifference that covered him for other people's matters, apathy had never really been a companion of his.

Now, oh, now! That stupid boy had come down into _his_ _home_, had knowingly disturbed him, and had pulled off that blanket of apathy. Anger, bright hot red anger, was causing his teeth to grind, his mouth to pull up in a maniac grin, and his fingers to twitch with the urge to either rid of it through the organ or a Punjab.

He embraced the rushing rage and his fingers came down upon the keys furiously. The song wailed and screamed. Yet beneath the ferocious rage, the screaming indignities, and the murderous urge to snap the boy's neck, there was a hidden relief.

That stupid boy had pushed feeling back into the Opera Ghost's life. The music, in sync with his thoughts, quieted a touch and slowed, questioning. By all means, he should have been thanking the boy for it. However, that was no excuse for all the other things the boy had already done. The other acts outweighed the one unknown, unintentional good deed.

The music slowed to a creeping halt, sly and slick.

Revenge would have to taken, of course. The boy had stolen his Christine. And, oh yes, his dear, traitorous Christine…

Yes, she would also fall. They would both fall.

His intense rage was leaving cold calculation in its wake. He just had to come up with a plan first. Killing them right off was out of the question of course. It was too simple, too easy for them.

Christine would be easier to deal with. He could ruin her like he had done to Carlotta…yet, she was crafty. Any trick he would be able to throw at Carlotta would never work on Christine. What intelligence she did have along with the tricks he had taught her would allow her to overcome anything he tossed at her. And he wouldn't be able to just pull her off the stage. A supposed to be dead Opera Ghost held little sway compared to a Vicomte that had reconstructed the opera house and was still a patron.

Okay, maybe Christine wouldn't be easier to deal with. He would have to settle for scaring the superstitious girl. It would keep her away for his cellars, at any rate. He would just have to wait to come up with a better plan for her.

The Vicomte, now, would have to die by his hands in the end. That much he knew. No. The Vicomte would be _persuaded _to fall into a trap and die. It would be fitting that the fool would die from his own stupidity.

Wait… The music slowed, hesitant. No, that wouldn't work. Christine would warn the fool. And she would have proof that it was him because he would be scaring her. The idiot would listen to her.

Alright. He wouldn't scare Christine. It would give her too much proof that he was back and plotting. He needed a way to hurt both of them and to yet not give any proof that he was doing something. He really didn't need Madame Giry picking up on it either…

He knew what he could do! The music sped up, the notes lilting and almost happy.

Since he had a truce with the Vicomte, it would be understandable that he would try to…_befriend_ the boy. Both the boy and Madame Giry would think he was trying to become sociable or some rot like that. Christine would be frightened probably, but she would have proof of nothing, so she would eventually let go of her fear.

After a while, he would prove the boy's stupidity by making the Vicomte fall into a trap. To erase any honor the boy had, he would make it look like suicide…No! He would hang the body in Christine's room to look like she did it! Then she would either be killed or be the monster locked in a cage!

The maniac smile had grown larger on his face, the notes pouring from the organ insanely happy.

Now all he had to do was wait for the Opera to start performing again. He would have to do this on his own territory, just to make sure everything went right.

This was going to turn out perfectly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 6 **  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#17- Garden Vista; Elysium El Dorado; Carnival**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually) **  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Christine was clinging to his arm. The feathered mask covered her face—which was probably drained of all color from fear—but he could see her eyes, wide and frightened, shifting restlessly from shadow to shadow. Her grip tightened on his arm, fingers digging into the flesh there with a painful pinch.

Raoul almost sighed. "Christine, your hand," he admonished lightly.

She looked up at him with wide child-eyes. "But Raoul," she whispered, "He could be here right now." Her eyes slid from him to the shadows once more. "He could be anywhere."

Raoul did sigh this time. He smoothed a hand over her hair in a gesture of affection. "Do not fear, little Lottie. Masquerades are meant for fun, not fear."

The words did nothing to alleviate Christine's emotions. If anything, the words made her even more alarmed and agitated. Her fingers dug into his arm again, and he winced. "You do not understand. He likes to takes things that are joyous and fun and make them wretched and horrid." Her eyes stilled for a moment on the laughing visages of the dancing people.

He had to resist the urge to roll his eyes heavenward. Instead, he picked out his saving grace and pointed her out to Christine. "Look, there's Meg. Why don't you go and talk to her? You have not seen her for a while."

She gave him a terrified glance, but he only urged her on with a gentle nudge. Ever so slowly she disconnected herself from him. Then, with hesitant steps, she walked over to Meg.

Raoul allowed himself the luxury of a glass of wine. Most days, he loved her like he did his sisters. Other days—days like today where her superstitious fancies overtook any and all common sense she had and she needed somebody to constantly cling to—he loved her as much as he loved Carlotta: not at all.

He glanced back over to Christine and Meg. Meg was laughing and smiling and chattering on. Christine was deadly still, her only movement the shifting of her eyes and the occasional forced smile.

Really, her fear was justified. She had protested the idea of a masked ball as the reopening event of the Opera Populaire. A masked ball had been the thing that had really started the decline of everything last time. That and _Don Juan_. He had protested in the beginning too, thinking that this was the thing that would force the Phantom out and reveal to everyone he was still alive. But Andre and Firmin had persisted. Something about dispelling the idea that the Opera Ghost was still alive.

He could see Andre and Firmin, each with buxom dancing girls hanging of their arms. All were grinning, unaware of the fact that the Phantom still lurked in the cellars beneath the opera house. Raoul shook his head and then set down the wine glass gently.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and a voice murmured, "Would you like to dance, Vicomte?"

Raoul had no time to respond. Instead, two strong hands spun him around and guided him easily into place. A quick knock with an elbow sent Raoul's hand on the upper arm, his other hand going almost instinctively to the waist. Then he was being danced out of the large hall of the Opera Populaire and into a dark, unfamiliar hallway.

It was the Phantom, looking unruffled and perfect, the opera mask gleaming with a dull shine. Raoul almost stumbled when he realized this, but the Phantom's smooth movements kept him from doing so.

Raoul, shocked, just stared dazedly and said nothing. The Phantom merely gave an almost nasty smile and started with, "How do you like the masquerade, Vicomte?"

Raoul shook himself out of his stupor. "Fine, Monsieur Phantom." His eyes went away. "Mademoiselle Daae, of course, is frightened out of her wits because of you."

The one dark eyebrow Raoul could see arched. "Oh, really?"

Raoul faltered a little in his dancing, not used to not be leading. "She believes you are about to fly down from the ceiling and kill the both of us."

That almost, not-quite nasty smile was back. "Have you told her about our agreement?"

Raoul's eyebrows rose. "Of course. She just believes you are going to go back on your word."

"Christine, I have learned, is, at times …" The Phantom paused for a moment. "A little silly," he finished.

Raoul couldn't help the small smile that crossed his face. He also couldn't help agreeing. "That's what happens when you are raised on fairy tales, I presume."

The Phantom chuckled, something that had the possibility of being pleasant and warm but was actually cold and almost maniacal. It fully hit Raoul that he was dancing with a supposedly-dead madman. He tensed.

The Phantom grinned. Then he dipped Raoul. Raoul, never having been taught to be dipped gracefully, was bent awkwardly, one leg up to keep his balance, his hands keeping a tight grip on the Phantom. Then the Phantom pulled him up again, bodies flush, faces closer than before. They started dancing again.

Underneath his mask, Raoul turned red. The Phantom was beautiful and strong, intelligent and insane. And that wonderful music he composed, and that exquisite, haunting voice… It really was no wonder that Christine had loved him once. His cheeks heated up once more.

Those were dangerous thoughts. He tried to pull away, but the Phantom held on all the tighter. "Are you afraid of me, Vicomte?" he bit out.

Raoul met the golden-green eyes and gave a tight smile. "Should I be?" There was something ultimately foolish about the question, he realized.

The Phantom's smile was more a feral baring of teeth than anything. He squeezed Raoul's hand tightly. Bruises would probably be there tomorrow. Raoul fought the urge to grimace and instead smiled brightly and pressed even closer to the Phantom. In a smooth move, the Phantom spun Raoul, placing distant between them. Raoul's smile was true when he realized he had gotten under the Phantom's skin. Then he leaned close to Raoul's ear and whispered, "That is for you to decide, Vicomte."

"Raoul! Raoul!" It was Christine.

The Phantom suddenly disappeared from his arms, vanishing into the shadows. Raoul reached out blindly, grasping for a sleeve, the edge of a shirt, anything.

Christine gasped when she saw him and ran forward, embracing him. "Oh, Raoul," she said, her breath hitching on a sob. "I thought He might have gotten to you. I thought He might have harmed you." She buried her head in his chest.

Raoul looked down at her blankly and then back at the shadows, eyes searching. Finally, he sighed, all tension leaving his body, and looked back down at her. "I am fine, Christine. Let's go back to the masquerade." He urged her down the hallway and then looked back once, searching for a glint of gold or the shine of light against a mask, but he saw nothing, so he followed her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 7 **  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#6- Soooo not funny! ; Sarcasm

**Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually) **  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Raoul frowned when several strands of hair came free from his ponytail and then brushed them away irritably. He really didn't want to be here. Andre and Firmin were at his sides, going on about the money Christine was going to bring them from that night's performance.

He looked from Firmin, stiff and proper, to Andre, all gesticulating hands, and almost let out a weary sigh. He really _really_ didn't want to be here.

He could see Madame Giry, firm and commanding, correcting the ballet rats that were practicing on the stage. Her cool gaze swept over the dancers, landed on him for a mere second, and then went back to the stage. He could almost see the smile she was hiding. She, unlike Andre and Firmin, could probably tell he didn't want to be here.

But he had to be. Ever since the Opera Populaire had picked out a new opera and had started rehearsing, he had to be here. For Christine's sake. According to her, at least. When rehearsals had started, she had begged and pleaded for him to come to the opera every day to make sure she was safe. He had refused, saying that he had appointments and errands. Then she had turned wide, watery child-eyes on him. And he, predictably, had caved into her requests.

The dance ended and the ballet rats congregated around them, all thin limbs and giggles. Meg Giry stood away from the rest, close to her mother. Actors and actresses spilled onto the stage, still rehearsing. A few broke character and made disgusted grimaces at the girls and the managers for blocking their way.

Finally, Madame Giry sighed. "Monsieurs, if you please." There was a steel note to her voice that made the managers comply. The ballet rats and managers moved out of the way. As Firmin and Andre were distracted by the girls, Raoul gratefully slipped away. The managers wouldn't notice his disappearance for quite some time.

He entered the still darkness of the halls behind the stage and let a small smile loose. Finally. A moment of peace. A moment of quiet. A moment of not having to deal with anybody…

A shriek resounded.

Weariness settled on his shoulders. He knew that particular shriek. Oh, Christine…

He rushed down the halls. When he got to her room, he raced in, only to find her crouched in the middle of her room, dead rose petals and dirt covering and surrounding her. Above her, a noose hung, swaying eerily, and a white opera mask floated above the noose, as if some invisible hanged man were wearing it.

He grabbed her and pulled her shaking frame out of the room, brushing the petals and dirt off of her hair and shoulders. Her hands were clenched in his shirt, mussing the clean lines, and she was babbling.

"He's going to get me, Raoul! I knew it! I should have never betrayed him!" She looked up at him, eyes dark in her bloodless face.

"Christine," he interjected. "You are fine. It's nothing that can't be cleaned, anyway."

She uttered a low keening sound in the back of her throat and then swooned, falling against his chest.

Well. He shifted her a bit and then looked around. What was he supposed to do now?

As if Someone heard his thoughts, Meg rounded into the hallway, eyes going from place to place. When her gaze landed on them, she frowned and gave him an arched look that she had probably learned from her mother.

"What happened?"

"She fainted." Together they slowly placed Christine on the floor, leaning her against the wall.

Another arched look. "Why?"

Raoul glanced back towards Christine's room. Why, indeed. He could understand why Christine fainted. It was just why the Phantom—and there was no denying that it was he that planned this—did this.

He nodded to himself and then stood. "You wake her up and then I will tell you."

Meg's eyes went wide as he walked back into Christine's room.

He went up to the noose, eyes narrowed at it. Madame Giry had been right when she had called the Phantom a genius. But, he had learned, there had to be some trick. Mirrors, maybe.

Curious, he reached a hand up to the space between the mask and the noose…and sliced his hand open. His hand snapped back, almost instinctively going to his mouth. A thin strand of blood hung suspended in midair. Carefully, he reached his uninjured hand out…and touched some sort of wire. A transparent piano wire, perhaps? Slowly, lightly, he drew a finger across the wire. It led from mask to noose and back again. Probably multiple times. There were probably even some connected to the ceiling.

He drew a dagger from his coat—he had never been unarmed since he had met the Phantom all those months ago—and sliced the wires. Both the noose and the mask came tumbling down, landing gently on the pile of petals and dirt.

He looked at the pile. It would just have to be cleaned later—before Christine came back to her room, though. He was just about to walk out when something _crunch_ed under his feet.

A letter. Which was, of course, sealed with a red skull. Raoul bent down and picked it up a trifle warily. Then he opened it.

_Mademoiselle, _it read.

_Do not attempt to come down into my cellars again. If you do I will not be able to reign in my temper._

_O.G._

Christine tried to get into the cellars? Raoul couldn't hold his groan in. It was so foolish, so stupid… And, yet, hadn't he attempted the same thing? That…that was different. He knew how to defend himself. Christine didn't.

He strode out of the room. Meg looked up at him, light blue eyes curious, while Christine continued to see there, staring hazily into space. He crouched down and grabbed her arms, the letter crumpling even more.

"You tried to go into his cellars?"

Her gaze snapped to him, but her eyes were still a little too fuzzy. "I…I miss him so much." Tears gathered in her eyes and her mouth transformed into a shaky little pout. "I can't help it." Her breath hitched and then came out as a sobbing gasp.

Raoul stared at her for a moment and then ran a hand down his face in frustration. "Do not try to go down there again. He will kill you." The pout turned into a moue as tears started spilling over. He dropped the letter on her lap and stood, turning away from her.

Meg stood, still and quiet. "Mama said you had a truce with him. Would he really kill Christine?" Her voice was a soft murmur, something Christine couldn't hear in her frazzled state.

"The truce did not include her." He glanced down at Christine who was dazedly reading the letter. "Somehow, I am not surprised she did this."

Meg's eyes shot up to him and then softened. She leaned down and started to pull Christine up. "I will take Christine to Mama's room and start getting her ready for tonight's opera."

Raoul watched them go, Meg, tall and straight, and Christine, almost stumbling. Then he shook his head and went back into Christine's room, resigned to cleaning up the Phantom's mess himself.


	8. Chapter 8

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 8**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#3- anvil; banter

**Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually) **  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary:** It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

The boy was in his seat. When he had come from his cellars to box five, he had expected somebody to be there. After all, it was the first show from the Opera Populaire after the whole debacle he had created. Although it would have angered him a little, he could have dealt with it.

But, no. He had hidden in the hollow pillar in the box and found that it was not just somebody in his seat, his box, but the boy, the fop, the idiot… the Vicomte. This irked him more than any other person in his seat would. With the exception of La Carlotta. Or the managers, maybe.

The boy was sitting in the plush red seat, a fine black suit on his form, bright golden hair pulled away from his face. A faint smile lingered on his face, eyes focused on Christine and the stage. It made Erik clench his jaw and grind his teeth.

When second act started, he slipped out of his hiding place and stood behind the boy. His fingers itched to wrap around his neck and just squeeze…

The boy turned a little and tilted his head up towards him, eyes crinkling a bit from his small smile. "Hello, Monsieur Phantom. How are you?"

Erik exaggerated a dark scowl in hopes that the fop would understand that he should not be there. "You're in my seat," he stated, words short and tinted with disdain.

The boy looked a little surprised, but then he stood gracefully and went to sit in the other seat. "Is that better?" A small, faint laugh. "I did not know which was yours, so I apologize."

Erik stared. Then he frowned, confused for the first time in…well, a long time. This boy was…strange. Strange, bizarre, odd, eccentric… Those were the only words to describe the Vicomte. He sat, eyes still on the boy. Thoughts racing, he ran a hand along the still warm armrest and then paused. "You are alone?"

The boy titled his head a bit so his whisper would travel. "I figured you would want to see the opera. It would not do for some couple to get thrown out of the box they paid for." The blue eyes moved from the stage and met his own, hesitant. "Although I am…less than desirable company, I thought that would be better than you not seeing it at all."

The eyes were calm and devoid of the fear Erik was so used to seeing, but there was still some emotion in them that made Erik pause. His whole expression made Erik pause. His eyes were going back and forth, searching for something, his mouth had anxious tension to it, and his eyebrows were furrowed just a little. The boy was worried. Erik almost grinned. The boy was worried by how he was going to react.

"I suppose," he supplied evasively, observing how the answer made the tension in the boy's mouth lessen and the furrow to his eyebrows disappear. Then he decided he would throw the Vicomte for a loop. "Thank you for that."

Just as he thought. The Vicomte stilled, eyes widening. Then a smile curled his lips up and was directed at him. "You're welcome," the boy murmured.

Erik wanted to reply to the smile with one of his own, his own thank you for the unwarranted kindness, but he forced a frown on his face and jerked his eyes over to the stage and the traitorous Christine. The boy was his enemy, just like little Christine. He was not supposed to want to smile at him! He was almost disgusted at himself.

The Vicomte leaned over his seat a bit, leaning towards Erik, and whispered, "You frightened Mademoiselle Daae very much today."

That statement wiped away any thoughts he had about smiling. He scowled as he bit out, "That was the point. I am surprised you did not warn your ladylove."

The boy snorted and leaned back in his seat. "Of course I warned her. She, however, decided it was necessary to not listen to me." There was a small sigh. "She said she did it because she misses you."

Silly, fickle Christine. She had been the one to toss him aside. It was her own fault. She could have deserted her precious Raoul for him if she had so wanted. He glared at the Vicomte. "Keep her away from my cellars. I will not hesitate to kill her if she tries that again."

The boy sighed again. "I will talk to her again. I do not know how much she will listen to me, but I will try." A sharp grin was thrown at him. "We both know Christine doesn't take well to common sense sometimes."

His eyebrows rose. The boy was making fun of Christine? On the night of the masquerade, the boy had agreed with him when he had said Christine was silly. He drew a finger along the edge of the armrest, eyes going up to the boy. "I am surprised you say that about your fiancée."

The boy looked at him, bright blue eyes wide. Then a smile curled on his face. "She is not my fiancée anymore." The smile lessened in intensity. "She broke the engagement off." He shrugged. "She said something about me not being 'the one'." The smile returned to its previous annoying brightness. "I only love her like a sister now, anyway."

Erik leaned back in his chair. That fickle girl had betrayed him for her Raoul…and yet she had broken the engagement off with him. A laugh threatened to rise from him. She had used them both!

Somehow, this was unsurprising. As he straightened in his seat, a smirk slipped onto his face. The boy was really no better off than he. This Vicomte, with his bright eyes and bright smile and golden hair, had stolen his love from the Opera Ghost…only to have her leave him!

It was really all too funny.


	9. Chapter 9

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 9 **  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time**  
Theme: **#9- rush; thrill; exhilaration

**Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually) **  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Raoul knocked on the door and then moved back a bit. His face held an expression of anxiety and he shifted from foot to foot in an almost nervous fashion. In one hand was an envelope.

Madame Giry opened the door and smiled gently at him. "Monsieur Vicomte. What can I do for you?"

Raoul pulled on his brightest smile and asked, "Can you take me to the Phantom?"

Madame Giry's small smile dropped and was replaced by her more familiar stern frown. "Why do you need to see him? He has done nothing." She raised her chin a little and then spun around to walk back into her room, the door swinging behind her.

Raoul followed her, his smile becoming strained the slightest bit. "Madame Giry, I have no quarrel with Monsieur Phantom. I merely wish to give him his payment for the month."

She eyed him a little coldly. "Madame," Raoul tried again, "if you do not show me the way, I will find my own way and he will probably kill me."

The hard lines of her face softened a touch. Then she sighed. "I will show you one of the ways I use. But I will not take you down there. You will have to go yourself."

* * *

He was scaling down a set of dilapidated stone steps. Really, he had to wonder how Madame Giry, in ladies' shoes and voluminous skirts, had gotten down these stairs when he himself was having trouble. Then he almost tripped and fell down a fissure where there had once been stairs.

Philippe had called many of the things he did stupid. And some, Raoul had to agree, actually were. This was one of those things.

He probably should have just given the envelope of money to Madame Giry to give to the Phantom. He probably should have just waited until the Phantom searched him out. There were so many other things he could have done other than going down into the cellars.

And yet…there was something exquisite in the way his blood was pounding and his heart was thumping. It was very…exhilarating. That heady thrill when he was by the Phantom, never knowing whether or not he was going to come out of the encounter alive…it was terrifying and exciting.

His foot slid, chunks of stone and rock falling, echoing in the abyss created by the missing stairs. A breathy, nervous chuckle escaped him and bounced off the walls.

Oh, this was very, _very_ stupid…

* * *

Alarms were going off. They were extremely annoying, but Erik did not move from his place at the organ. The alarms that were being set off were from one of the hidden entrances that Madame Giry knew about. It was probably her. If it wasn't then it was probably just some foolish idiot. Or Christine. At that thought Erik scowled and pulled a Punjab close to him. He had warned her and that infuriating Vicomte already. If they did not heed his warnings, then it was their own loss.

The sound of rocks crunching and falling alerted him to somebody's presence. Then, questioning, "Monsieur Phantom?"

Only one person ever addressed him like that. Erik whipped around, teeth bared angrily. Just like he thought. That Vicomte, that boy (_man_), was making his way into the cellar. His gold hair was falling out of its ribbon and his cheeks were flushed enticingly pink. His blue blue eyes took everything in easily. Then those bright eyes landed on him and the boy (_man_) actually _smiled_.

Erik, furious only seconds before, froze and stared. Then he regained his bearings and glared. "May I ask what you are doing here, Vicomte?"

The smile faltered. Then it came back, bright and full of precious life. The Vicomte lifted a hand and displayed a simple envelope. "I have come to give you your pay."

Erik nearly snarled. The fool was interrupting his time working on his newest opera to annoy him about money? "And you couldn't have given it to Madame Giry?"

The smile disappeared and a more neutral expression took its place. "I only wished to know you received the money."

He took a few steps closer to the organ and he started to place the envelope among the papers already there. But he hesitated. Then he gave a small laugh and pulled the envelope back. When he saw that the Vicomte's cheeks had turned pink, Erik almost raised an eyebrow in question.

The boy (_man_) tugged on a few errant locks of gold hair. "This may sound strange." Another small laugh, this one a little shaky. His blue blue eyes skittered from the organ to the envelope to Erik. "But, of course, like always, you will think it is strange. Would you please…"

Those too-bright blue eyes went soft. Then in a rush, "Would you please play something you've composed?"

Erik stilled. The fool's face was so appallingly easy to read. He really wanted to hear something, just to hear and appreciate. There seemed to be no desire to exploit Erik's music in any way. He still had to be suspicious though. "Why would you want to hear it?"

The fool's cheeks were an even brighter pink than when he had last looked. This time Erik did raise his eyebrows. Those blue eyes went away. An uneasy cough. "Your music is…" He floundered.

Then, "Your music is exquisite. It is some of the best music I have ever heard." The blue eyes came back to him, open and unashamed and true.

Erik was the one to look away this time. This fool of a Vicomte thought that his music was…the best? It had the possibility to be a very high compliment if he took it that way. He would _not_ take it that way. He absolutely refused to take it as a high compliment from the fool.

He had to force his scowl. "I suppose I could play something for you."

He pulled himself away from those eyes and placed his fingers over the keys. Then he started playing. It was a slow, lovely song, soft and easy. Minutes passed. He had started playing with the idea that he wasn't going to sing along, but he couldn't help himself. He started to sing. His voice, low and dark, mixed and flowed easily with the high, sweet notes. More time passed.

When Erik finished the Vicomte (_Raoul_) was sitting ungracefully on the ground, a smile illuminating his face. Softly, "That was wonderful."

He stood and placed the envelope on the organ. "I know I am not wanted here by you, so I will leave now." He started walking away. Then he stopped and turned a little to look at Erik. A gentle smile was on his face. "Thank you." He continued walking and left.

Erik stared. He was plotting revenge on this man? This naïve, foolish man? Erik frowned as he brought his fingers down on the organ keys, a dark, almost angry, song flowing forth.

This man had done what to him? Had tried to keep his love by any means necessary, just like Erik had done. What else besides that? Had stolen Christine from him. If the Vicomte hadn't come along, Christine wouldn't have betrayed him. But…was that necessarily true? Christine, in the end, had betrayed both of them. What was to say that she wouldn't have betrayed him eventually? What else had he done? Erik racked his mind for any other offences but could not think of any thing else.


	10. Chapter 10

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 10

**Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time

**Theme: **#32- janitor; freak

**Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually) **  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary:** It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

"_In sleep he sang to me. In dreams he came…"_

* * *

Christine was standing between them. The Phantom was to one side of her, dressed exquisitely in a black waist coat and pants. Raoul was on the other side.

In one of her hands was the engagement ring Raoul had given her once upon a time. She was gazing fondly at it, fingers roving over the delicate gold band and the precious diamonds. She clutched it and brought her hand up to her chest.

Her eyes went over to the Phantom. "And the Angel of Music sings songs in my head. The Angel of Music sings songs in my head," she murmured, her voice lilting and swaying in a slightly musical way.

She brought her hand down and moved her gaze along the ring once more. Then she looked at Raoul. Her gaze was sad, her rosebud mouth pulled down in a slight frown. With only the smallest sigh, she dropped the ring. A smile removed her slight frown as she started walking away from the both of them.

The Phantom let loose a noise that was more like an animalistic growl than anything. But she kept walking away, her form growing smaller and smaller. Then she was a little marionette, strings pulling her bejeweled form this way and that. Other small puppets, ones dressed in flimsy tutus and Pointe shoes, flocked around her, crowing her praises. The Christine-puppet's movements became more and more erratic and jerky, but they continued their praise. She was the diva of the group, it seemed. In a bright flash of light, all the puppets vanished.

Raoul was in the Phantom's lair once more. The Phantom was at his organ, ivory and obsidian keys gleaming in the candle light. He was singing and singing and singing, so many beautiful songs in that horribly haunting voice. The notes were wrapping around Raoul, drawing him closer and closer to an edge he could not see.

Next thing he knew, he was standing behind the Phantom, arms wrapped around his neck, fingertips curled in the almost-waves of black hair. The Phantom was leaning back just a little bit, head against Raoul's shoulder. His face had a calm, serene expression, his eyes shut.

Raoul moved his hand from the Phantom's hair to brush his fingers against the edge of the porcelain opera mask. It was cool against his fingertips. He could pull it off if he so wanted to. But no. He moved his hand again, letting it rest against the high cheekbone that wasn't covered by the mask.

The Phantom opened his eyes at the touch. His eyes were a dark gray-green, flecks of gold standing out. There was something in his eyes, something hot and burning that made shivers race down Raoul's spine. He moved his head, let his lips press against Raoul's knuckles, and then pulled away from Raoul.

He started singing again, hands flying over the organ. Singing and singing and singing… With all the singing, Raoul would never be able to get that voice out of his head. So many songs were turning in his head, each word, each lyric impressed upon his brain by that unforgettable voice. So many many songs, too many songs, each one in that haunting voice, each one pushing him closer and closer to some dangerous edge he could not see…

Raoul shot up. He was in bed, the covers twisted around his body. His heart was pounding almost painfully, his blood thumping and roaring in his ears loudly, the pulse in his throat jumping. It was…just a dream. Just a silly, confusing dream about puppets and songs.

Two things from the dream made him shudder and clench his bed covers in his hands. The first was green-gold eyes, heated and searing and causing warmth to pool low in his stomach. The second was that voice, that haunting, maddening voice, turning and turning and _turning_ in his head. Raoul had the feeling that it would take a while to go away.

He fell backwards, landing on fluffy pillows. People were right when they called him strange. Here he was, a Vicomte in the middle of the night, dreaming about his ex-fiancée turning into a diva puppet and the infamous Opera Ghost singing to him. He ran one shaky hand through his hair and let loose a sigh. He could ponder on it tomorrow. Maybe. If he really wanted to. But first he needed sleep.

He shifted a bit, trying to get comfortable. After ten minutes of lying there with his eyes shut and no hint of sleep, Raoul nearly groaned. It was probably the damn music stuck in his head. He was trying to ignore it, but it was obviously in vain.

Almost unwillingly, he started listening to the music in his head, his mind following the words and voice. It was beautiful and exquisite and haunting and thousands of others of words. It slowly started lulling him to sleep.

He had once asked the Phantom, during a strange dance, whether or not he should be afraid. It had only been after the Phantom had frightened Christine with his little trick and had actually warned her about going into the cellars did Raoul decide that he probably had no need to fear the Phantom. He only had to fear the Phantom if he angered the man. But now he had to say that he had reason to be afraid. It would be so so easy to fall in love with the beautiful voice.


	11. Chapter 11

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 11 **  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#5- trickery; magic

**Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually) **  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary:** It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Christine as a diva puppet and the Opera Ghost singing to him? Raoul resisted the urge to tear his hair out. That dream had been plaguing him all day. He knew there was talk of dreams coming from one's psyche and told of inner conflicts or thoughts. With that idea, it just made the dream even more insane and ridiculous than it already was.

Christine as a diva puppet was easy to understand. That was just his fear of society's pull on her and whether or not she'd become a diva like Carlotta.

But…the Opera Ghost singing to him? He had the vague memory of thinking it'd be easy to fall in love with the man. And, there was, of course, him falling asleep due to the Phantom's lullabies. A blush rose to his cheeks and he ran a hand through his hair.

What a crazy dream…and what crazy thoughts that followed! Really, he must have been going insane.

A small maid pulled him from his thoughts.

"Monsieur Vicomte?"

He forced his eyes over to her. "Yes?"

She kept her eyes trained on the ground. "You should start getting ready for the ball tonight."

He held back his grimace. One of Philippe's friends or business associates, no doubt. All these parties and balls he had to go, and usually, it was not by choice. The Parisian elite were like the rest of the world's elite: subtle and snobby. Most of the time, Raoul did not like dealing with aristocrats. There were very few times aristocrats said what they actually meant. And it was annoying to Raoul, who usually said what he meant.

(This didn't mean he couldn't dance his way around a subject or question like the rest of the elite did. Unlike the other aristocrats, he just didn't like to do it.)

He turned to the small maid and nodded. "Thank you." She dipped into a quick curtsey and then quickly scurried off.

* * *

A whole week of racing thoughts and pounding keys and half-formed melodies. Erik played an arpeggio to go along with his quick thoughts and then turned away from the organ in disgust. He was becoming a disgrace and it was all the stupid Vicomte's fault.

A whole week of questioning, questioning, questioning. What had the Vicomte done wrong?

He raked a hand through his hair. Maybe…maybe he should just go over to the Vicomte's. A good dose of Vicomte-brand stupidity would clear things up.

* * *

The idiot of a Vicomte was only half-dressed. His shirt was open, his waistcoat was on a nearby chair, his cravat was hanging around his neck, only one shoe was on, and his hair was a messy golden halo around his flushed face. Erik gulped.

Then he reigned in _whatever_ he was feeling and slithered into the room through the balcony. In the amount of time it took the Vicomte to notice him, he could have killed the fool several times over. Painfully. And slowly.

The fool jumped, red covering his cheeks. He let out a nervous chuckle and then glanced down at himself. "I really look like a mess." A slight sigh.

Erik couldn't resist snapping, "You look like a mess because you are half-dressed." And then tacked on just for the hell of it, "Fop."

The Vicomte rolled his too-blue eyes but didn't answer. Instead he focused on buttoning up his shirt and tugging his waistcoat on. He attempted to fix his mess of a cravat but gave up half-way and just started pulling his other shoe on.

Erik was the one who rolled his eyes this time. The thing that the Vicomte had done wrong? Been incredibly stupid.

The fool was attempting to make some sense of his hair when Erik stepped forward, pulled him close, and started to fix his cravat in jerky movements. Then Erik looked up…and stopped. He could see every individual blond eyelash, could see every different shade of blue in his eyes, could see the faintest crease at the corners of his eyes, could see the vague shadow of stubble along his jaw line…

He took a step back and bit out, "You should know how to fix a cravat by yourself by now, Vicomte."

The idiot just laughed. "I can never get it right. Philippe always scolds me for looking disorderly." He glanced at the mirror. "Thank you, Monsieur Phantom. You didn't have to do that."

Well, yes, he already knew that. In fact he was questioning himself why he did that. In response to both the idiot and his thoughts, Erik just scowled darkly.

The fop ran his fingers through his hair a few times and then pulled his hair back at the nape of his neck. His eyes ran over the small table and he smiled when he spotted a shimmering gold ribbon. The Vicomte was just about to bring the ribbon up and use it to keep his hair pulled back, when Erik reached forward and plucked the ribbon from the Vicomte's hand.

Blue eyes widened. Then his mouth dropped open when the gold ribbon simply vanished. Erik then pulled a black ribbon from thin air and held it out to the Vicomte.

Slowly, the Vicomte took it. Then he quirked one blonde eyebrow in question.

Erik felt warmth sear his cheeks so he turned his head away. "The gold would have blended with you hair and made you seem even more a mess than usual. The black won't."

Those black ribbons were the same exact kind he used to wrap around Christine's roses. But that, of course, had absolutely nothing to do with anything.

The Vicomte (_raoulraoulraoul_) gave him a soft smile and then used the black ribbon to hold his hair back. Erik had been right. The black made the gold of the Vicomte's hair stand out even more than usual. The idiot looked into the mirror, gave his reflection a once over, and then nodded.

"Thank you, Monsieur Phantom. Your help has been appreciated." The Vicomte gave him a cheeky grin. "I would love to keep you company, but I'm afraid I'm late." A pause. "As usual." Another cheeky grin, this one forming slowly. Then he slipped out of the room.

Erik blinked at the spot the Vicomte had occupied only seconds before. Then, with a slight frown, he stepped out onto the balcony and vanished.


	12. Chapter 12

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 12 **  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#8- analysis; collection

**Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually) **  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary:** It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Erik scowled as he stomped out of his gondola and into his home. Well, that had done absolutely _nothing_ for him. Although the Vicomte-brand stupidity had been…well, a bit _amusing_, it had done nothing to his whirling thoughts.

To add to it, he could still think of nothing the Vicomte had done wrong. The truth of the matter was…he didn't think the Vicomte _had_ done anything else wrong. And that was a problem. Because, if the Vicomte had done nothing else, then, well, that meant he was being hateful for no reason.

…Sure, that wasn't really a problem, in the end, but still. He was acting like the mindless monster everyone had thought him to be.

With a haughty sniff Erik straightened and smoothed his hands along his hair. He was a murderer, a madman, a genius, an artist, and, yes, a monster at times…but, if anything, he was never mindless. For everything he did, he had a reason.

…But his reason for hating the Vicomte was suddenly gone. So it would be mindless hate.

His lips thinned into a tight, white line.

…No, not mindless hate. He had a reason. The Vicomte was a brainless fool. So it was perfectly fine to hate him. Really.

And, well, the fool had been the cause of the fire that had burned done his home. His opera house. His Opera Populaire.

Yes. So his hate was justified.

With a flip to the tails of his coat, he sat at the organ and played a few slow notes.

He'd still have to kill the fop of course. The Vicomte saw and knew too many things. Plus he had been stupid enough to get on the Opera Ghost's bad side. So, yes, still killing the Vicomte.

Ah, but on the subject of reason and the Vicomte (two things that were usually never together)…

He reached into his pocket and, frowning, pulled out a shimmering gold ribbon. The same ribbon he had spirited away from the Vicomte. On closer inspection he could see that the ribbon was a little faded, a little threadbare, and was unraveling a little at one end.

Why had he taken it? And what had made him help the fool dress?

The ribbon was like any other ribbon one could find in the market. The only thing that could be considered special about it was the color. But the color was still faded and, well, _gold_. Nothing like impassioned reds or deep blues or pure white or even unending black. Gold. Bright, light, shimmering gold. Gold which spoke of treasures and hope.

He eyed it. Gold was not a color for him. So…why had he taken it? The damn thing was obviously old and well-used. It brought him nothing.

So…what made him want to keep it?

He bared his teeth at it as if it threatened him. Then he tossed it on the organ. When he saw it fluttering towards a candle, he quickly reached forward and snatched at it. Then he glared.

Damn thing. Couldn't he just toss it? Throw it away? Preferably in a gutter?

But his hand didn't seem to want to let go of it. After a moment of staring at the harmless ribbon, his face softened a little. Almost hesitantly he ran a finger along its length. It was soft and satiny. It was actually…kind of pretty. When he wasn't glaring at it. Or remembering that it was the Vicomte's.

It was, after all, just a ribbon. It wasn't as if the thing could actually do anything to him. Gently, he placed the ribbon on an empty space on the organ. Then, almost with a smile, he started to play.

* * *

Raoul removed himself from a Baroness's clutches and snuck away into an empty corner. Finally, some quiet. Some peace of mind. A few minutes without having to fight with words.

With a moment of not having to dodge subtle thrusts of sharp words, his mind jumped back to the encounter with the Phantom.

The Phantom…had, well, dressed him. The infamous and feared Phantom had stood in his room and had fixed his cravat. His hand went up and touched the ivory knot of cloth. Had done an impeccably good job of it, too. Philippe had gone and made a few short comments about how Raoul had finally learned to tie his own cravat instead of having some maid fix it.

So, the Phantom had fixed his cravat and…stolen his favorite ribbon? His hand came up in an almost absentminded gesture and touched the black ribbon wound around his hair. Strange, that. The Phantom had whisked away his favorite ribbon and had replaced it with a black one and had given Raoul…fashion advice.

Raoul couldn't help his snicker of amusement.

But then he slid his fingers along the silky edge of the ribbon and his expression became thoughtful. The Phantom had nothing to gain from stealing a simple ribbon.

…Unless it was satisfaction at irking Raoul.

Which he had. That ribbon was Raoul's favorite one. He had found it years ago in some small shop and had used it ever since. Sure, it had become a little threadbare. And sure, the color had faded somewhat. But it had still been Raoul's favorite ribbon.

It, after all, was almost the same exact shade as his hair.


	13. Chapter 13

Fandom: Phantom of the Opera  
Title: Left to Chance- Chapter 13  
Author: secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time  
Theme: #27- love, hate, and the like; emotions  
Pairing/Characters: Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually)  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer/claimer: "Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.  
Summary: It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Christine turned and smiled as Raoul entered the room. She couldn't help running forward and pulling him into a hug, uncaring if her costume got messy or if she smeared make-up on his expensive clothes.

When she pulled back, she took in how his cheeks were flushed, how the smile wouldn't leave his face, and how incredibly nice he looked. It was not due to her either, she knew. She quirked an eyebrow at him and her smile turned sly.

He caught her look and started. "What?" he asked.

Laughter bubbled in her throat, but she suppressed it. "Who is she?"

Raoul looked strangely confused as if he had no idea what she was talking. "Who is who?" A laugh from him, abrupt and light. "Are you going to try and talk circles around me tonight, Christine?" He wagged his finger at her reprovingly. "It will not work." A grimace. "For just a few nights ago, I had to go to this ball with Philippe and—"

She rolled her eyes and cut in. "Raoul, do not go off the subject. I mean, who is the girl you were with tonight?"

Once again, a confused look. "I was with no girl tonight." Christine caught the edges of a smile trying to take over and took it as a sign of his lying.

"Do not lie, Raoul." Her eyes went up and took in his hair. For once, not a strand was out of place. "You've got the look—" She stopped as her eyes landed on the black ribbon holding his hair back.

A puzzled frown took place of her jesting smile. Raoul rarely wore black clothing and never used black ribbons. It was always greens or browns or blues or grays. There was even that pretty gold ribbon he often wore. But never black.

Slowly, "Raoul, where did you get that ribbon?"

His hand went up and fiddled with it. Light bounced off its glossy side and Christine's mind was thrown back to silky black ribbons tied around the stems of deep red roses. Although the make-up covered it, the color drained out of her face.

Raoul hesitated and glanced away when he answered. "The market, I think."

Lie. He was lying right to her face.

She clenched her hands into fists to still their trembling. "And who were you with tonight?"

Raoul sighed and his face turned into something familiar, something with no secrets. "Are you still going on about that? I was not with a girl tonight."

Of course not. Of course he wasn't with a girl. After all…

"Raoul, just tell me." Her voice had gained an edge to it. Raoul looked at her, blue eyes wide and shocked.

"I was with…" His voice trailed off and then, after a pause, he mumbled something.

Christine stilled. No. She did not just hear what she thought she heard. "Can…" She gulped. "Can you repeat that?"

Raoul straightened and tilted his chin just so to make him seem more like the noble he was and not the little boy she once knew. "I was with Monsieur Phantom."

Christine fell back onto the chair at the vanity. Her whole body was shaking, her eyes wide. "Raoul…he hates you! He will hurt you!" Her voice was shrill and strangled.

Raoul looked away. "Christine…"

"And that ribbon!" She pointed one quivering finger at the black ribbon. "He gave it to you, didn't he? Did he give it to you around some roses, Raoul?" Her voice held just the slightest bit of bite, the slightest tinge of acid.

Then she brought her hands up and covered her face. "He's just setting a trap for you, Raoul! Don't you see?"

He walked forward and kneeled at her side. Gently, he pulled her hands away from her face and kept them clasped between his own. "Christine, Monsieur Phantom has shown no desire to hurt me." Except for that first meeting. But that was excusable.

Smiling a little, he said, "I daresay we've become friends."

Christine's breath caught and held in her throat. "You met with him tonight. Friends? Raoul, he is friends with no one! He is going to hurt you!" She reached out to grab his arms and shake him.

With a groan Raoul pulled himself away from her. "Christine, I will not listen to this. Monsieur Phantom has become my friend. He has shown no inclination to hurt me."

Christine wrapped her arms around herself and gave a small keening moan. "It's a trap!" Her eyes had become wide and teary. "Raoul, please, listen to me!"

Raoul's voice lashed out. "I will not let you say that. He has not hurt me. He has been kind to me." A slight sigh. "Do not make me repeat that again."

"But, Raoul…"

"No!" He threw his hand out. "Stop it! He is my friend." A small, mocking laugh. "It is not as if you have to worry anyway. You love neither him nor me anymore."

Teary eyes went down in what seemed to be shame. "Raoul, I said I was sorry, but I didn't love you like I should…"

"It is fine. You are just a good friend now." He reached over to pat her still shaking hands.

Then he cupped her face in his hands. "I am fine. He is being kind to me." Sorta. When he wasn't insulting the Vicomte. "I think this truce is doing wonders for the both of us."

Her eyes were still frightened and wary. "Even Madame Giry agrees." Okay, so it was a little white lie. But it would ease her and would hurt no one. The lie did its trick and she brightened a little. "I think he is changing." He gave her a wide smile. In return, she let out a very small, very tentative smile.

"Maybe," she agreed.

"Changing for the better," Raoul emphasized.

When she just bit her lip and glanced away, Raoul rubbed the edge of his thumb along one cheekbone. "People change. Remember that." That granted him a smile that was a little less shaky. "I will be fine."

Then he looked up at the ceiling with a contemplative expression. A shrug as he looked back at her. "And if I am not, it will be my own fault."

A giggle from her.

He pressed a small kiss to her cheek and then stood. "I have to get going Christine. I have a very busy day tomorrow." As he was walking out the door, "You did wonderfully tonight."

Quietly, he shut the door behind him. Then, grimacing from the ache gathering behind his eyes, he started out of the opera house.


	14. Chapter 14

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 14 **  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#12- gargoyle

**Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually) **  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary:** It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Raoul flopped onto the chair and covered his eyes with his hands. Christine was so very frustrating to deal with sometimes. His eyes went over to the small table next to the chair, to the decanter of brandy.

The fire light glinted off the edges of the crystal, the brandy inside glowing a warm golden color.

Maybe…maybe it would help that ache trying to settle behind his eyes. It would probably help him try to forget the conversation he had had with Christine.

He reached over to grab the tumbler and decanter and repressed the groan that was rising. The brandy spilled out of the decanter into the tumbler and Raoul followed the amber liquid with his eyes.

He picked the tumbler up, watched as its contents sloshed about. His other hand went up and curled around the black ribbon holding his hair back.

Maybe with some brandy in him, he would be able to figure out what Christine had meant. She had mentioned something about sending the ribbon around some roses…

He sipped at the brandy, relaxing a bit more as the alcohol pooled warmly into his stomach.

--

Erik cursed. Why was he doing this again? It was the middle of the night. He should have been at the Opera Populaire, in his underground lair, writing music or playing the organ or…sleeping. He was not supposed to be standing on the edge of the Vicomte de Chagny's roof, thinking about going in. He was not supposed to be out, wondering if he was feeling well. Was not supposed to be wondering what Christine—that little minx—had said to make that pinched expression come onto the idiot's face.

Was not supposed to be anywhere near the Chagny. Was not even supposed to be thinking of the fop, unless it was to curse him.

He cursed again. He _was _going to go in and find out what was wrong, despite it being a horrible idea. His gaze went from window to window, trying to figure out which one would be the best one to use as an entrance.

Then he stopped. Was…was someone singing? Singing in an almost slurred voice, a little off-key, cracking a bit on some of the higher notes.

Erik turned and saw, on the other side of the roof, lying on a large stone gargoyle, was the Vicomte. He was the idiot that was singing. Erik rolled his eyes (_so much like the idiot to do this_) and stomped over.

"What do you think you are doing, Vicomte?" His voice was all pointy anger and sharp ice.

The boy turned and beamed at him. His golden hair fell in a halo around his face; the black ribbon (_Erik had given him_) that had been holding it back was tightly wrapped around one hand. In that hand was also a decanter of some amber colored liquid. Alcohol, most likely, with how the boy was acting.

The Vicomte drew himself up a little and replied, "I am having a conversation with Monsieur Gargoyle."

Erik looked at how the boy was sprawled gracelessly between the two stone wings and raised on eyebrow. "You talk to inanimate figures, Vicomte? I always suspected you were a little mad."

The boy laughed, cheeks flushing a bit. Erik quickly looked away from the sight, uncertain of the warmth gathering in his body. The Vicomte, seemingly not noticing how Erik looked away, said, "The mad calling the mad." Then he laughed again.

Erik straightened and glared. The boy was so impudent.

The Vicomte saw the look and rolled his eyes. "Come now, why would I not talk to Monsieur Gargoyle? He, at least, does not insult me with every other sentence."

Erik frowned. Was the boy trying to make a point? "That is because Monsieur Gargoyle cannot talk."

The boy shifted a little and had to throw out one hand as to not roll off the gargoyle's back. Erik felt the strange urge to order the Vicomte off the stone gargoyle at that instant. Then he focused on how the boy had narrowed his too-blue eyes at him and decided that he should encourage the idiot to stay up there. If the boy got drunk and fell off, then Erik would have one less problem. Something about thought caused _something_ in his chest to tighten, but Erik just pushed the feeling away.

"Yes, but you are a gargoyle that can."

Erik's eyes widened a touch. So the boy could really act like a noble Vicomte instead of just a fool all the time. He parried with, "Why talk to any gargoyles? Why not to friends or family?"

The boy's look shifted and became something a little sad. "Why talk to gargoyles, you ask? It's better that talking to nobody." Then he gained a frustrated expression. "Or talking to people you have to be on guard around."

Erik stared. Was Rao— the boy lonely?

The Vicomte caught his look and smiled a little. "Part of the reason why I bother you." He took a sip of the liquid from the decanter. "You will say exactly what you think of me and will not care what I think about it. And I can do exactly the same." The small smile widened a touch. "It's…pleasant." The boy closed his eyes and started to hum some lilting tune.

Erik opened his mouth, ready to retort with how it may have been a pleasantry for the Vicomte but it was torture for him (which, though appropriate and fitting for the banter, sounded all wrong in his head). What came out of his mouth though was, "I am not a gargoyle."

The boy opened his eyes and seemed to roll that thought around in his head. Then his eyes took on that strange, sad cast again and he said, "I know. You are Monsieur Phantom, the Opera Ghost."

Well, yes, he was, but there was a man behind the monstrous, phantom-like mask. "I am Monsieur Erik."

The boy blinked at him a few times and then gave him a soft smile that caused something in his stomach to twist pleasantly. Then his smile turned a little sharp "Well, I am not a fool or a fop or an idiot. I am Raoul."

The comeback to that was easy. So easy to just say that the Vicomte was a fool and a fop and an idiot. But then Erik looked at the boy and saw the idiot had fallen asleep. His head was turned slightly to the side, golden-blonde hair spread elegantly around his flushed face. Golden eyelashes almost brushing the top of high cheekbones covered with creamy skin. His pink mouth was parted slightly for easy breathing. Erik felt another tighter twist in his stomach.

He leaned forward, leaned over the boy, and stared at the peaceful expression. Was this what angels were supposed to be like? He had always thought that of Christine, but she had turned out to be a demon in disguise. But this boy…so open, so trusting, so happy. The few times he had seen the boy angry had been because of something gone wrong for his ladylove. A Sir Lancelot, perhaps, or maybe even Archangel Michael in love. Erik idly brushed an errant strand of gold hair away from the serene face. The boy turned towards the touch.

He looked to the boy and then to the sharp drop over the edge of the house. Gritting his teeth, Erik scooped the boy off of the gargoyle and carefully placed him on the roof. He set the tumbler a few feet away.

He was almost ready to just leave when he glanced down at the boy's face again. With a curse, he pulled his cape off and laid it over the boy. Even if it were summer, the nights could get chilly. He stared for a moment at the almost pretty boy (_man_) wrapped in his cape and felt that same strange twist in his stomach.

Quickly, quietly, Erik vanished from the roof.


	15. Chapter 15

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 15**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#4 diabolical; highest order**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually) **  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Raoul groaned. Oh, his head _ached_. My, but it was stupid to sit on a rooftop during the night and just drink…and…have strange conversations with the Opera Ghost? No, not with the Opera Ghost, the Phantom…but with _Erik_.

A smile flittered onto his face. So the Phantom could be kind. He could be human. That was…reassuring. Maybe…just maybe one day, the Phantom would be able to remove himself from his otherworldly lair and go into society. Still with the mask, probably, but he could go from the Opera Populaire. He already had most of the makings of a noble. All anybody had to worry about was his temper. He would…not be lonely anymore. He would be happier.

A fierce wind blew, reminding Raoul that he, if he remembered correctly, was on the stone back of a gargoyle on the roof, and he shivered, burying himself in the soft fabric covering him. He frowned. Soft…fabric?

He attempted to open his eyes, but then he quickly shut them again. The light! Oh, it hurt his head! Bracing himself, he opened his eyes a little.

He…was not on the gargoyle anymore. He was on the roof, a lovely cloak covering him. He buried his face in it, thinking. He had not brought the cloak up with him. He had not even moved from the cold gargoyle. Well, he had been drunk, so it was possible that he had moved from the gargoyle to the roof without remembering. But the cloak? He inhaled deeply.

Not his. It was of a lovely quality, so it had the possibility of being his. But the smell…Clinging to the cloak was a strange earthy smell, on that Raoul only associated with one place and one being.

That strange earthy smell? He had only ever smelled that when five cellars below the earth in the Phantom's underground lair. And the Phantom had been wearing a cloak last night. There was always the possibility…

No, that was too preposterous. The Phantom would never be willingly kind to him. But the man had not killed him yet and had actually spoken to him last night. He inhaled again. It _had _to be Erik's (_hey, he could actually use the man's name now_) cloak. The man had actually been nice to him? Unexpected, but…pleasant. He couldn't help the smile or the warmth in his cheeks. He would just have to go later and return Erik's cloak. Once his head stopped aching, that is.

* * *

Erik paced. What had he been _thinking_? Giving that stupid idiot (_raoulraoulraoul_) his cloak? No! Not even that! What had he been _thinking_, taking that idiot off the gargoyle? He should have left the fool up there! Come morning, the drunken fop would have rolled off the gargoyle and become a mere splat on the road below! Something in him twisted unpleasantly at the thought, but he pushed the feeling away with some low, growled curses.

His eye caught a smooth glint of gold. That stupid ribbon…! He snatched it off the organ and dangled it over the glowing flame of a nearby candle.

Why did he even care? First the ribbon, then the boy's life! It would have been a blessing if the boy had just died without any interference! But no! Why had he interfered?! The boy would have died, and then he could have killed the traitorous little Christine! His revenge would have been complete!

Yet, he had moved the boy! It was if…as if he wanted the boy _alive_ or something! Moving him! Giving him his cloak to keep the cold away!

With another growled curse, he thrust the ribbon into the flame. The scrap of cloth caught fire which slowly inched its way up. As it smoked and burned, that _something_ in him curled in on itself painfully…and made him snap his hand back, quickly patting out the flame.

He eyed the scorched fabric and, with a scowl, placed it on the organ among inked papers.

What was his _problem_? He couldn't even get rid of the stupid ribbon! If this was how he reacted with a frivolous ribbon, how was he going to act when he set his plan to get rid of the Vicomte and Christine into motion?

He glared at the ribbon some more.

Damn it. Just damn it all. Forget his stupid plan. Next time he saw the fop, he was just going to kill him and get it over with.

Almost in line with his thoughts, alarms started to go off. An evil grin curled on Erik's face as he realized that those alarms were for the corridors that the idiot usually used.

What perfect timing.

* * *

Raoul shifted the cloak once more and continued walking. His heart was already pounding. Would the Phan—no, _Erik_—would Erik still try to kill him? Or had some walls been broken between them last night? Could they be…_acquaintances_? Was it actually possible that the feared Opera Ghost could have friends? Well, there was always Madame Giry, but she was more of a mother figure than a friend. Was it actually possible?

He smiled a little. Although the thought was a little strange, it was not unwelcome. He could be friends with the Opera Ghost. With Erik.

Maybe he would actually be able to get Erik to forgive Christine one day. His smile became sharper. Alright, that was a little more farfetched than them being friends. But maybe. One day. Anything was possible, it seemed. The Phantom had been kind to him.

He brightened when he saw Erik walking up the dilapidated stairs. Maybe this was a new beginning for the both of them.

And then Erik was upon him, one clawed hand around his throat, pinning him to the stone wall, lifting him off the ground, like a Punjab had once upon a time. Cutting off air.

There was an insane, angry look on Erik's face. Golden-green eyes narrowed, strong mouth in a scowl. Just like when he had roped Raoul to a portcullis and placed an ultimatum before Christine.

Raoul's hands went up to wrap around Erik's strong forearm, the cloak fluttering to the dirty ground. He opened his mouth, wanting to ask "Why?", but all that came out was a strangled gasp.

Erik's face darkened at the noise and he placed his other hand around Raoul's throat, lifting Raoul even farther off the ground. His hands tightened some more. When Raoul started struggling, his scowl dissolved and a mad grin took its place.


	16. Chapter 16

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 16**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#14 craven; aristocrat; democracy**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually) **  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Raoul's hands tightened, fingers digging into the flesh and cloth of Erik's arm. He kicked out, booted feet catching the edges of Erik's waistcoat. Why…why was Erik doing this? The mad grin and insane glow in his eyes (_or was it just the candles?_) spoke of the days when they first met. When Christine had been the only thing between them. But now…he had thought…there had been something close to _friendship_. Something that neither of them had had for probably, well, years.

Needles. That was it. Needles were sticking in his throat. Catching those necessary wisps of air. Cutting off his breath. Needles jabbed in the soft flesh of his throat. Stabbed through his voice. He just tried to inhale, but the force on his throat stopped it.

His eyes widened. Something in Erik's face shifted. His brow was wrinkled and that light looked all funny in his eyes. No more mad grin. Just an uneasy scowl, as if it were unsure of settling on that face.

Before everything went spinning and dark, Raoul had a stray thought (_despite the insanity, he…he's very attractive_) and had to smile at it.

* * *

Erik pulled his hands from the boy's throat. The boy (_oh no, not a boy any longer, an angel now_) was still. Too still. Unnaturally still. _Deadly_ still.

He glared at the boy (_angelangelangel_) and then looked away with a dark frown. Why did he let go? Why did he want to lean down and see if the boy were still breathing? He wanted the idiot dead…didn't he? He glanced at the still figure, an uneasy expression on his face.

Fine. Quickly, almost—hahahaha—_panicky_, he crouched down and placed his ear near the slightly parted mouth. Yes…There! The faintest brushings of breath. He just couldn't help the sigh of relief that left him.

He turned his head the slightest bit and met the for-once still face of the Vicomte. He smiled a little. Creamy skin that just begged to be caressed. Hair that had to be melted strands of gold. His eyes went down a little. Red ringed the pale throat and (_it was his own fault_) Erik felt a nasty, twisting twinge, something that could only be classified as guilt.

Hesitantly, he reached out. His eyes flickered from Raoul's throat (_redredred YOUR FAULT_) to Raoul's face, waiting for the boy (_angel_) to wake and push him away.

One fine-boned finger pressed softly to the ring of red. Then the whole hand, gently covering the mark. Without the mark, it looked like the Vicomte was merely sleeping.

Slowly, he drew his hand upwards, fingers caressing the too-soft skin. It had always been Christine Christine Christine. But this boy was just as, if not more, attractive and twice as kind.

He leaned forward a little. Erik could see the faintest spray of freckles across the sloping bridge of the nose, every golden eyelash, every small crease in the parted lips. This boy had stayed with Christine until the end. Would the boy show that kind of unending loyalty to everyone…even to a monster? Was it even a possibility?

Slowly, he pulled his hand from the Vicomte. He was supposed to hate this man. Hate him for absolutely nothing, he reminded himself. He was the Opera Ghost, just an insane man. The boy had just been in his path. That was that.

He would just take the Vicomte to Madame Giry. He would not interfere with the boy any longer. For that matter, he would not even annoy Christine. That would just bring the boy back to the fifth cellar in search of a monster. The boy would just be a patron and he would just be a specter in the halls. He would let go of the sweet call of bringing down Christine in the hopes that the Vicomte would stop bothering him, would stop twisting his thoughts around.

With a sigh, he scooped the none-too-light Vicomte into his arms and started walking. He stopped when he saw the cloak on the stairs. The boy…had been bringing his cloak back? He felt all warm, but then he forced his gaze away. He would not deal with the boy anymore.

* * *

Raoul rolled over and sighed. What…? He blinked several times and then tried to smile when he saw Madame Giry hovering over him like a mother hen. She glared darkly, pursed her lips, and smacked him upside the head.

"Ow!" he protested, but she ran over the exclamation with, "Did you provoke him this time? Or has lost all rational thought once more?"

Raoul frowned a little and brought a hand up to his throat. "I was returning his cloak." He coughed some, voice a tad hoarse. Needles were in his throat once more, this time lining it, so his voice caught the edges of them and hurt. "I thought…" He flushed. "I thought we were going to be friends. We actually had a conversation last night. And he gave me his cloak so I would not be cold." Her expression was disapproving so he tried to widen his eyes a little to portray innocence.

She sighed and handed him a cool glass of water, which he slowly sipped. "Monsieur, you were a firsthand witness to the madness and chaos he created to get Christine. Why would you put yourself in that again?"

His eyes flickered away from her, eyebrows coming together as he thought. "Since Christine betrayed him, he is alone. It is my fault." She looked blankly at him. "I understand that. No one should be alone. Even if they are considered a monster."

She gave another tired sigh and gently patted his hand in a motherly manner. "You are too kind, Monsieur. But he gave me a warning." From the desk by the bed she plucked a folded piece of parchment. There was no red skull. The writing was a messy scrawl, nothing like the elegant script that had adorned the previous Opera Ghost notes.

_Vicomte,_

_Stay away from me and my cellars. I will kill you if you don't. _

_O.G._

Raoul frowned. An empty threat, most likely. So what was Erik up to now?


	17. Chapter 17

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 17**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#2- the subconscious; bury**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny (eventually) **  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Raoul was standing at the edge of a lake. It looked eerily like the lake in the Phantom's lair: murky, quiet, still. His feet were at the edge of the rocks, tiny pebbles falling over as he fidgeted.

He jumped.

The water was cool and, surprisingly, clear. His jacket and hair went up, floating around him. Air seemed unnecessary. Around him, bits and pieces of walls floated, there for no apparent reason. Down, down, down he went, until he was floating parallel to a wall. Then a hand shot out and wrapped around his neck, pinning him to the wall.

Air suddenly seemed important, essential. He sputtered, bubbles floating out of his mouth instead of curses and protests. As he started to choke, he looked up.

It was the Phantom, grinning like the cat that had caught the canary. His grin widened as he flexed his fingers a little. He leaned forward, the pleasant looking mouth moving, but no sound followed. He leaned forward even more, very close to Raoul now.

Raoul would have tried to gulp or back up if it had been possible. The Phantom's eyes were lidded and glinting strangely. His mouth was curved up in that insane grin as he spoke. But Raoul was pinned, fastened there by a strong, cruel hand.

He felt more than saw the Phantom place his other hand on his chest. Although the water was cool, those spider-like fingers were colder, freezing through the cloth covering him.

The Phantom leaned closer once more, breathed some sentence, some phrase, that Raoul couldn't hear, and then placed his mouth over Raoul's.

Despite the frigidity of the Phantom's hands and fingers, his mouth was surprisingly warm. The Phantom breathed and Raoul sucked in the sweet air. His lungs rejoiced.

Then pain rushed through him. He jerked away from the Phantom and gasped, replacing that sweet air with nasty water. The world spun before his eyes as his body tried to reject the lake water. But even as the water and the walls were spinning dizzily, the Phantom was still.

In the hand that wasn't keeping Raoul pinned to the floating wall, was a heart. A beating heart. Raoul looked down. His beating heart. There was a ragged hole in chest. He could see the bricks of the wall if he focused enough. He looked back up.

The Phantom's hand curled around the still beating heart. Faint red slid from the heart to the water, mere tendrils that curled with the spinning world.

The Phantom smiled at him, a smile that was nowhere close to crazy, one that was actually kind and pleasant. Then he leaned down and kissed the heart sweetly, gently. His mouth was stained dark red when he looked back up. Still giving that nice smile, he let go of Raoul and cradled the beating heart close. Raoul, choking, spluttering, dizzy from the spinning world, floated away.

Raoul, in his bed and not in some crazy lake-world, shot up. When he saw that the world was aboveground and not spinning, he fell back to the bed. He wiped away the sweat that had gathered on his brow and looked out the balcony doors.

Why did he have such crazy dreams? And why was the Phantom—no, Erik—always involved in them?

His hand fluttered up to his mouth, lingered there for a mere second, and then went down to his chest to where he could feel the frenzied beatings of his heart. He hadn't seen the Phantom for a few weeks, no matter how hard he had tried to search the man out.

He sighed, curling up under his blankets. There was always a chance he would see the Phantom tonight though. There was another party for the beginning of another opera.

If he were lucky, maybe…just maybe he would see Erik again.

As he drifted off to sleep, Raoul didn't ponder how strange it was that he was hoping to see the man that had supposedly hated so much a few months ago.

* * *

Christine was in his bed. He knew that as much as he knew that his face was disfigured. She was there, curled in that swan bed, curled underneath those black sheets. There…in that lacy monstrosity she called a nightgown. Ah, well, he could remove _that _quickly enough.

Erik walked over to the swan bed, shirt untucked, pants loose, feeling at home. He pulled back the sheets and met Raoul's bright bright too-blue eyes with a smile.

There was no curiosity about why Raoul was in his bed. He knew Raoul belonged there just as much as he knew he was a musician. Christine? In his bed? That was silly. Christine couldn't be in his bed because Christine was in the mirror.

The mirror was leaning against one rocky wall. The edges were cracking, the gilt frame tarnished. She was in the mirror in that lace _thing_, eyes dark and teary, mouth scowling and spewing nasty, hateful words. She was there, gesturing fitfully with one hand, glaring at him.

He scowled back at her. What a nasty creature, really. And people thought HE was the monster! Oh, how she could wrap people around her finger and break them!

Erik, still scowling, grabbed the edge of the heavy curtains surrounding the mirror and tugged. The mirror, along with Christine's image, were covered.

As he walked back to the bed, his scowl vanished, a very very slight smile taking over. He climbed into the bed, pulling Raoul into his arms. Raoul went with it with a laugh and a grin. They kissed, softly, lovingly, and then laid down, wrapped in each other's arms.

Erik opened his eyes and nearly groaned. Falling asleep on the organ was never a pleasant experience although it happened quite a bit. He frowned a little, the vestiges of a dream tickling at his memory.

When he did remember, he let out a frightening roar that woke everyone in the opera house.


	18. Chapter 18

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 18**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#16- crème de la crème; on top**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Raoul let out an inaudible sigh and pulled himself away from a rather clingy duchess with a fake smile. Why did women seem to stick to him? Some other noble lady tried to draw him into a dance. It took a few minutes to successfully, and politely, get rid of her. A countess, standing across the room next to her husband, caught his eye and smiled seductively at him. Raoul colored and went to go hide away from all of the partygoers —the female ones in particular— in one of the recessed hallways.

As he walked out of the large ballroom, he cast his gaze up to the shadows that lined the hallway. It was just beams up there, he told himself. Beams, beautiful buttresses, and delicate artwork, but that was it, he had to tell himself. There was nothing more up there. There were no strange phantoms haunting those shadows. No strange phantoms with a sinfully delicious voice and golden-green eyes and haunting words.

Despite these thoughts, his heart kept racing and his eyes kept searching. He just had to find Erik.

He stopped, face tilted upwards. Hesitantly, he brought his hand up to touch his throat. It had taken a few weeks for the bruises around his throat to finally fade. They had been purple-blue in color and in the shape of delicate but strong fingers. Every morning, after shaving, he had searched the looking-glass and traced over the shape of the bruise.

He frowned. He had no idea what had made Erik so angry. And that strange note he had left Madame Giry… why had all of that come about so quickly? They had been acting like friends just might the night before Erik had attacked him. And then, suddenly, the Phantom hated him once more. His frown pulled down a little more.

He had already tried going down to the cellars. But Madame Giry had caught him and had scolded him like he was some sort of child. They had actually gone through that several times over the course of the past few weeks. He wanted to go down to the cellars and shake the Phantom and say, "Why? We were becoming friends." She, however, wanted him to be "safe". He had tried to protest that he would be safe, but she had just given him a flat look and had said nothing more while he had blushed embarrassingly and turned back for home.

He let out another sigh and rubbed his neck gently. When the shadows seemed to shift, he attempted a smile. "Erik," he whispered. "I will find you again." Then he stopped, the color in his cheeks rising.

The Phantom was bound to be listening. That was what he did. Christine had always warned him against speaking his thoughts while near the opera stage because if he did, the Phantom would hear him. He glanced down the hall. The opera stage was near this particular hall, but Erik would probably be close by since there was a party going on to celebrate his star pupil's performance.

"I will find you," he repeated, this time a little louder. "Your threats don't scare me. If you wanted to kill me, you would have done so already." His smile widened a little. "The only reason why I haven't come down to your home yet is because Madame Giry keeps catching me. But she can't watch out for me forever. She'll get distracted eventually."

His eyes scanned the shadows, searching futilely for a glint of light against the veneer of an opera mask. There was nothing though. The shadows were still. There really was nothing up there.

But just because Erik was not up there, it did not mean that he wasn't somewhere else. Raoul glanced around, for once noticing all the shadows that existed in the hallway. His mouth set in a determined line. He was just about ready to go and search every shadow of every hallway so he could find the damn Phantom.

Or better yet… Madame Giry was busy with all the people at the party and making sure that none of the ballet girls snuck in. He could just try to sneak down to the cellars now. She would never know!

He just started edging his way through the hall, eyes on the shadows, when a lady in a luxurious dress entered the hall. When the lady's eyes landed on him, she positively lit up.

Quickly, she walked over to him and latched a hand onto his arm. "There you are, Monsieur Vicomte!" Her voice was sugary sweet and rather ear grating. "Absolutely everyone has been curious to where you ran off to!"

A smile automatically came to his face, but it was rather wan. Plus, his eyes kept darting from her back to the shadows. "Ah, Madame Baroness, I just needed to catch my breath from all the dancing. It is quite tiring."

She pouted cutely and started to tug him back towards the ballroom. "Well, you have obviously gotten your breath back, and you, sir, owe me a dance tonight."

Raoul took one last glance at the shadows of the hall, hoping desperately to see a pair of golden-green eyes or the polish of an opera mask. When he saw nothing, he stretched his smile a little more and walked to the ballroom with the baroness hanging off his arm.

In the shadows of one secluded corner of the hall, Erik wrapped his cloak tighter around him. That boy…that…that angel was too persistent. He made a slight movement towards the ballroom, almost deciding to go and rescue the angel away from the clutches of that strange woman, but then curled back into his corner.

No. He had already decided. He would not interfere anymore. The boy would forget him soon, especially since he was on one of the top rungs of the social ladder. Women were vying for his attention. Soon, he would find one, one more loyal than Christine hopefully, and he would forget all about the monster that lived in the cellars of the Opera Populaire.

Thoughtfully, he brought one edge of the cloak up to his face. He inhaled, eyes closing in concentration. The cloak still had the faintest smell of Raoul clinging tenaciously to it.

With a determined look in his eyes, Erik turned his back on the light and laughter of the ballroom and headed into the shadows to the cellars.


	19. Chapter 19

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 19**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#28- Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou?**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Erik scowled at the keys of his organ. They…they were mocking him. Just as much as those papers were! Those inked notes were laughing at him. Laughing that he couldn't write anything. Laughing that his inspiration was gone. Laughing that his Muse had fled.

The music that was continually floating around in his mind was gone. If he could only find it…

(_"I will find you."_)

Warmth came into his cheeks. That…that _angel_…trying to find him. Hah! He was the feared Phantom of the Opera, the dreaded Opera Ghost! If he did not want to be found, he would not!

Plus…it wasn't as if he actually wanted that idiot to find him! That…that would just be stupid!

He let out a harsh laugh. Hah! Wanting that idiot to find him! Why…why would he want that?

A flash of gold caught his gaze. Wanting that idiot to find him would be like wanting to keep that stupid gold ribbon he had stolen!

But…he had already tried that, hadn't he? A black scorch mark was along one end, edging up the side. He hadn't been able to burn that silly ribbon; in some way, that meant he wanted it. And wanting that…was like wanting the idiot to find him.

He scowled, defeated by his own logic.

Before the music had refused to come because his thoughts had been revolving around a certain angel. Now the music was escaping his grasp because a certain ribbon was keeping his focus. He glared at it now.

Then, annoyed by the damn thing, he grabbed it and started pacing. He couldn't just get rid of it. That much was obvious. Plus…he ran one finger along the silky edge…it reminded him of the lovely gold shade of the angel's hair. Reminded him of the trade he had done with his own ribbon. The thought of the silky black against the bright gold… He couldn't help the smile that appeared on his face.

That silly angel…he couldn't even tie his cravat properly. Silly, beautiful angel. Silly, persistent angel.

Realizing where his thoughts had strayed, Erik forced a scowl on his face. He…he would just have to place the damn ribbon somewhere where he would not look.

That thought in mind, he headed towards his library. There were quite a few books he would be happy to not touch again anytime soon.

Downright grinning now with the thought of ridding himself of those inane thoughts, he searched his bookshelves, trying to find something he would not read again.

Then he came upon _The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet_. Sliding it off the shelf, he let it fan open. He read the page it landed on.

_O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?_

_Deny thy father and refuse thy name;_

_Or if thou wilt not, be but my sworn love_

_And I'll no longer be a Capulet._

Erik sneered. Silly Juliet. Silly Romeo. He remembered reading it a long time ago and hating it. If they had loved each other so much, they should have fought for their right to be together. Dying together was nothing compared to living together. Who cared if they were a Vicomte and Phantom? It shouldn't matter.

He blinked and ran that thought over in his head. Heat gathered in his cheeks. He meant Capulet. He meant Montague. Nothing else.

He placed the ribbon between the pages carefully. It seemed even brighter now, placed against the colorless paper and the faded ink. The bright gold seemed…almost out of place. He drew a finger along the satin. It was softer now against the dryness of the page.

(_"The only reason why I haven't come down to your home yet is because Madame Giry keeps catching me. But she can't watch out for me forever."_)

Erik slammed the book shut and threw it on a table. He tried to shake those thoughts out of his head as he walked out of the room and back to his organ. Those thoughts were no good. If he kept thinking of those things the angel said, then he would start believing them. And that would be useless.

He sat at the organ and fixed his attention on the blank sheet in front of him. Now, without those thoughts, without that silly ribbon, he would be able to work some more. Slowly, his thoughts drifted back to the angel. He didn't even realize this. He also didn't realize that a slight, dreamy smile had settled on his face.

* * *

Raoul _pouted_. Madame Giry did not budge. "I am sorry, Monsieur, but going down there would tempt him to kill you," she said, trying to be reasonable.

Raoul resisted the urge to throw his hands in the air. Instead, he just rolled his eyes. "I've told you, Madame Giry. He meant nothing by that note."

Her mouth thinned to a line. "Monsieur, he was serious. He would not hesitate to kill you. Are you that desperate for death?" When he opened his mouth to reply, she held up one thin hand. "Do not answer that. I will not have your death on my conscious. If you wish to die, do it somewhere else."

"Madame," he pleaded. "Please. Let me go down there. He will not harm me."

She gave him a flat look. When he hesitated with another argument, she grabbed his arm and started tugging him back to the entrance of the Opera Populaire. Raoul was so shocked by this that he did not even start to struggle until they got to the main stairs.

"Madame," he tried again, "I will go to the managers and…and—"

"And what, Monsieur?" she demanded, ushering him out the doors. "If you do not stop, I will go to the managers myself."

"And what, Madame?" he repeated, standing tall, straightening his coat. He tried to pull off the imposing-noble bit like his brother did, but it simply did not work for him. He looked much too innocent for that. "They will not concern themselves with talk of the Opera Ghost. They believe him to be dead."

Madame Giry arched one eyebrow. "They will believe me if I tell them that you are harassing my ballet girls. That may not be uncommon, but if I tell them that you are hindering my work and therefore hindering the performance, they will speak with you."

Raoul paused. They _would_. They were so concerned with their income that they would even forbid their only patron to come into the Opera Populaire unannounced, which would help Madame Giry in her efforts to keep him from Erik.

Madame Giry gave him an arch look. "Good day, Monsieur." Then she shut the doors in his face.

Raoul frowned. He would just have to find another way to get to Erik.


	20. Chapter 20

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 20**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#10- dictionary; search**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

--

Raoul glanced around hesitantly. Seeing only a few hung-over actors and no frightening ballet instructors, he knocked on the door. When it opened he entered the room and quickly shut the door behind him. Turning, he met the shocked faces of Meg Giry…and Christine. He forced a charming smile on his face and bowed to both. "Mademoiselle Giry. Mademoiselle Daae."

The little Giry raised both eyebrows expectantly, a slight smirk tilting her lips up. Christine just looked confusedly at him before attempting a smile. Her attempt, however, fell flat.

Meg went over to a bed, sat down, and, an innocent look on her face, asked, "May I help you with something, Monsieur Vicomte?"

Raoul straightened his cravat a touch—the damn thing was in shambles from his efforts at making it look like someone adept at the process had done it—and said, "I would like to speak to you." At Meg's raising of one eyebrow in a scary imitation of her mother and Christine's frowning, he tacked on, "Alone, if you please." He ignored the curious look Christine shot him.

Meg just continued sitting there, looking angelic. She even smiled prettily at him as she asked, "About what?"

Raoul glanced at Christine, met her dark curious eyes, and then looked back towards Meg. "It is a matter I would like to discuss in private, Mademoiselle." He would _not _discuss this in front of Christine. That would just be calling for the hysterics he so did not want to deal with.

That devious little Giry just folded her hands and said pleasantly, "Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of Christine, Monsieur." Another pretty smile. But there, in her bright blue eyes, he could see that flash of deviousness. Raoul gritted his teeth as he kept up his smile. Meg knew what he wanted. And she knew he did not want to speak of it in front of Christine.

After weighing the pros of speaking—knowledge—and the cons—Christine's hysterics—he decided he could deal with Christine's histrionics. And, if he couldn't, he always knew where the door was at.

Looking down to avoid Christine's eyes, he said, "I wish to know how to find the Phantom."

Christine, a tad predictable now, turned a deathly shade of white and swayed as if she were about to faint. Both Meg and Raoul ignored her; they were staring each other down. Raoul knew Meg knew how to get to Erik; Meg knew that Raoul could not find the Phantom.

Finally Meg looked down and brushed a few nonexistent particles from her dress. "I have absolutely no idea on how to find the Phantom, Monsieur." A slight laugh from her though her eyes were sharp as they came back up to him. "I just have to wonder on how you got that idea."

She was lying and they both knew it. He just couldn't call her on it.

Right on cue, Christine retrieved her voice from wherever it had fluttered off to and she cried, "Raoul! Why must you keep trying to go after him?" She had moved the agenda up though, as the tears were already streaming down her cheeks. "Are you mad?"

Having no desire to go through her question/answer session again, he dryly said, "I am in full possession of my mental faculties, Christine."

Christine's mouth dropped open at his blunt response. Raoul did not notice as he had turned back around to face Meg.

"Mademoiselle, I just wish to speak with him," he tried.

She leveled a flat look at him. "I am not going to help you," was her answer.

Raoul opened his mouth, ready to deliver another argument, but shut it when he recognized the look on her face. It was the same stubborn, no nonsense expression her mother got when she dealt with his arguing. The little Giry was not going to budge, he could see that much.

Gritting his teeth against the infinite amount of curses that rose, he bowed to them, turned and walked out…

…Only to meet with Madame Giry on the other side of the door.

Raoul resisted the insane urge to recoil from the stern look on her face and substituted that urge with straightening and going, "Madame."

"Monsieur, by what right do you have to go and badger my daughter?"

Uh-oh. He wasn't dealing with a rigid ballet instructor. He was dealing with a very scary mother. It would have been best to handle the situation carefully.

He dealt with the elite of society. He should have been able to talk circles around her. He, though, was _Raoul_. Thoughtlessly, he blurted out, "If you will not help me find the Phantom, I will have to use other means to find him."

It was as if a shadow passed over her face. "You are still looking for the Opera Ghost?"

Raoul actually bit his tongue so he could think over his words. Then, haltingly, "Why would I stop looking for him?"

Stupefied by his answer, Madame Giry stared incredulously at him for a few seconds before she rolled her eyes and grabbed his arm, dragging him, no doubt, towards the entrance of the Opera Populaire. Unlike last time, he resisted.

"Madame," he tried, attempting to pull his arm from her, "I will keep looking. Neither you nor a silly note is going to stop me."

Her grip loosened so suddenly that he stumbled in an effort to keep his balance. When he looked up, she was staring at him again; however, he couldn't decipher her expression.

After a few moments of tense staring, she finally asked, "Why do you keep searching for him? I know you've already told me that you blame yourself for his isolation. That cannot be your only reason though."

Hesitantly, he fumbled for an explanation. "I…I've already said. I thought we could be friends."

"Friends?" she asked. He nodded, feeling all of seven years old once more. "Monsieur, I…" she trailed off. Whatever she was going to say was lost as she shook her head and started once more. "Monsieur, write a note. I will take it to him. If he does not act unfavorably, then I will show you how to find him."

His smile was bright and unrestrained. Happily he grabbed one thin hand and pressed a kiss to it before bolting.

Madame Giry's face, however, darkened at his happy exit. Worriedly, she looked up at the beams and rafters. "What are you getting yourself into now, Erik?" she murmured.


	21. Chapter 21

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 21**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#35- forget-me-not; memory; photo**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Raoul tapped the edge of the nip pen against his mouth. What to write, what to write…

Blankness followed. Unsurprising really, considering who he was writing the letter to. The man composed soaring songs of unsurpassed beauty. What would Erik think when he saw Raoul's own stumbling lines? Not that Raoul always stumbled, of course. Being a noble had insured that he could write a rather eloquent letter. But make him write a letter to the Opera Ghost and what skills he had flew out the window.

What was he supposed to write, really, when he had to practically beg the feared Phantom to not forget the…the _bond _that they had somehow formed? Erik would probably take one look at Raoul's words and laugh.

Then again, who wouldn't laugh? He was trying to be friends with the man that had kidnapped his fiancée and had tried to kill him—repeatedly. No wonder Madame Giry had believed he was trying to kill himself. She probably believed that he had lost his mind; _he_ was starting to suspect that, with the way he had been acting.

Biting his lower lip in anxiety, Raoul laid the nib of the pen against the paper and started to write.

* * *

Madame Giry handed the letter over to Erik. Then, quietly, she watched. Erik dragged his fingers over the paper, carefully weighing the slight package. Then he, with a gentleness that surprised her, broke the seal. The fingers of his free hand skimmed the inked words as he read. His mouth was softened, his eyes glowing.

Then Erik reverted back to predictability. His eyes narrowed in anger as he crumpled the paper and tossed it into the dark corners of his home. His smile was sharp as he turned to her and, gesturing widely, said, "Madame, you bring the boy down here and I will kill him as I have promised to do." The cruel smile vanished as a scowl took its place.

Then it was as she figured. Madame Giry inclined her head. "I will relay your message," was said dryly as she turned back to the stairs. Carefully, she picked her way up the dilapidated stairs and started composing the letter she now had to write to the Vicomte in her head.

And to think she had been worried that Erik had gotten into another Christine-like situation. Silly of her, really, in hindsight. Erik hated the Vicomte with the same manner of passion with which he had loved Christine. At least she didn't have to worry about that anymore. Now all she had to worry about was a persistent Vicomte.

* * *

Erik absolutely refused. He would not look at that corner. He would not go search out that letter. He definitely would not read every inked word until he had the letter memorized. He _would not_.

His eyes betrayed him first, reluctantly going over to that corner. That paper, that plain off-white paper, would be getting dusty and damp in that corner. Soon, the dark ink would blur and bleed until the words would be unreadable. He frowned for a mere moment at that and then reminded himself that was what he wanted. He did not want any reminders of that angel.

Even so, a few minutes later, his mind was riveted on the fact that the angel's letter for him was slowly being ruined. Gritting his teeth, he resolved that, _fine_, he would go and get that letter…only to burn the damn thing. Yes, that was his intent as he quickly went over to the corner and searched the paper out of the darkness.

It was dusty and damp, just like he had figured. He saw as he unfolded it that the words had not yet started to blur or bleed. His fingers trailed lightly, lovingly, over the words.

To think, the boy was so persistent as to write a letter to him. It was one of the first times the dreaded Opera Ghost had ever received a letter. Especially as one as sweetly written as this.

The Vicomte was asking that Erik should remember that they had become acquaintances. That they had, in the boy's mind, had become friends. The boy did not want that friendship forgotten. He had cherished it and wanted it to deepen.

To think, the boy was as stupid as he had originally believed. Who would want to be friends with the monster that had tried to kill him as many times as possible? But there was that one time, that one night when the boy had gotten drunk, and Erik had had the opportunity to kill the boy and he hadn't taken the chance. He had even attempted to stop anything that night by moving the boy! But, the boy didn't know that.

Even so, the angel wanted to be friends. A strangled laugh escaped him as he smoothed out the crumples he had placed there. To think, the woman he had loved had run away from him. And to think, the man he could possibly love was trying to get closer to him—and he was the one running away. He was trying to get rid of the angel, trying to avoid this golden man—and the idiot was trying to get closer.

Erik went back to his organ, carefully placing the letter on the top. Madame Giry would not bring the boy down; the boy would not be able to get to him. Erik would stay in his darkness.

* * *

Raoul unashamedly snatched the letter out of the butler's hands. Just as he thought! His face lit up as he undid the seal and read the letter. The glow faded from his face. Madame Giry would not show him how to find the Phantom.

Meg wouldn't show him. Madame Giry wouldn't show him. Christine would fall into hysterics if she heard Raoul even mention the name.

Determination settled on his face as he methodically folded the letter back up. Now he would really just have to find Erik himself—this time, by searching through all the shadows of the Opera Populaire.


	22. Chapter 22

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 22**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#18- disheveled; in the rain; thunder**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13/R**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Raoul opened his eyes. He knew this place. This was…this was the Phantom's lair. No, no, no…this was _Erik's home_. Carefully, he shifted. He was…lying in a bed? Slowly turning around to look, he could see that, yes, he was lying in a bed. A lovely bed with luxurious black sheets that he could not resist twisting his fingers in. He was laying there, cheek against the cool silk, when Erik settled on the bed next to him.

Some distant part of his brain wanted to dreg fear from the deepest parts of his soul and push it to the front of his mind. Another part—bigger than the part that wanted to fear this man (_yes, yes, MAN, not monster_)—wanted to rush up and grab this apparition turned man and ask him…ask him about something. About a letter of some sort? About something they weren't supposed to forget?

Those two small parts of his brain wanted things he could not comprehend. The rest—and he could understand this—jumped in joy at the sight of Erik. He could not repress the smile that came onto his face.

Erik smiled down at him and reached out one fine-boned hand to brush away some strands of hair away from Raoul's face. For some strange reason, there was a faded gold ribbon—his old gold ribbon—wrapped around the wrist. Raoul reached up, drew his fingers along the ribbon up to the palm, and twined their fingers together. Erik's smile widened at this gesture; he brought their joined hands up to his mouth and laid a kiss on Raoul's fingers.

Raoul smiled and brought his free hand up to curl in the loose strands of black hair. He was…inexplicably happy. Using his grip in the hair, he tugged Erik down and they shared a kiss. It was warm and slow, sending shocks of pleasure all the way to Raoul's toes. Slowly, Erik pulled back, a smile curling his mouth up. His eyes, all green and grey and gold, were happy.

Raoul moved his hand from Erik's hair to the signature mask adorning his face. It was cold against his warm palm. Carefully, he pulled the mask off. Underneath, just as he remembered, the flesh was bubbled and drooping. Erik's skin was fair except there, where it was a bright angry red.

Raoul pushed himself up on his elbows and scattered kisses along the raised skin. It felt dry and cool beneath his lips but, other than that, it was no different from the skin of any other person he had kissed.

As Raoul pulled back, he could see the red pinking and then finally turning the fair color of his face. The raised flesh smoothed out, conforming itself to his bones, and the drooping skin tightened. By the time Raoul was lying back on the bed, Erik looked like any other human. A very handsome human, yes, but just like any other.

Erik raised his free hand and skimmed it over the area he had always hated. His expression slowly brightened. When Erik looked down at him with wonder and adoration and—dare he say—love, Raoul smiled back up. "Let me be with you," Raoul murmured. "You are no monster."

Erik's face changed. It took Raoul a second or two to identify the expression. It was the same madness Raoul had seen on Erik's face when Erik had stolen Christine to his underground lair. This time Raoul felt no fear at the look. Excitement rushed through his veins as Erik gazed down at him.

Erik leaned down, kissing Raoul once more. But it was not the slow and gentle kiss he had given Raoul earlier. This one was harder and more passionate, drawing Raoul's breath from him. When Erik used his free hand to slide underneath Raoul's shirt, Raoul let out a breathy moan. He could feel the Erik's triumphant smirk against his mouth. The warm hand skimmed along Raoul's stomach, causing the muscles there to twitch, and then descended. Along the hip, to the juncture where hip met thigh, to…

Raoul tore his mouth from Erik's, drawing in frantic breaths. Erik moved his face down, pressing his smirking mouth against Raoul's throat. His mouth was warm, so very very warm… Erik's hand moved, causing Raoul's eyes to flutter shut.

Raoul shot up in his bed. Glancing around, he ascertained that, yes, he was in his room. He was not, in fact, in Erik's lair. A glance down however showed that, yes, that warmth thrilling through his veins was real.

Slowly, he moved from his bed. A look down caused heat to rush to his cheeks. Maybe…maybe a step outside would be better for him. The walk there though was rather uncomfortable.

When he stepped out onto the roof (_the roof where he and Erik had—_), he did not expect the cold rain. Despite the coolness, it felt…nice. Refreshing. It was not long before the cool rainwater soaked through his sleeping clothes. By the time the heat left his blood, he was sitting by a gargoyle (_that one from that night—_), cross-legged and shivering.

Had he really just had a dream where—? He flushed. It wasn't hard to determine what the dream meant. He wanted Erik. And not just as a friend. Erik was…attractive. Was…_thought-provoking_. Was…

He dug his fingers into his palms. He wanted Erik. Like how a man was supposed to want a woman. The thought caused heat to stir in his stomach again.

So…what was he going to do? He would still try and find Erik, of course. He still wanted friendship with Erik. But what of his attraction? What of that?

He tilted his face up, soaking up the cold rain. He would pursue that friendship first. If that went through, then, maybe, later…Maybe.

He stood, disregarding his disheveled bed clothes and the water dripping from them. As he walked back into his home, he ignored the shivers racking his body.


	23. Chapter 23

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 23**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#30- aesthesiogen **  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13/R**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Hiding himself in the shadows, Erik slunk to the theatre box. The velvet curtains hiding the box from the hallway clung to his shoulders as he entered the empty box. Box five. The infamous box from all those months ago from the premiere of _Don Juan Triumphant_. The infamous box that that impudent angel had stolen from him on that night. Then, later, that infamous box where that angel had drawn him into a conversation for one of the first times.

He drew his fingers along the hollow pillar in the corner and gave a shadow of his usual smirk. How many times had he slipped into that column and eavesdropped on conversations? How many whispers had he heard, standing so very still and silent?

His shadow-smirk turned into a slight smile when he approached the red chairs. He slid his fingers experimentally over the velvety covering. Then, easily, he sat, eyes still on the hollow pillar.

It had always been a strange experience, eavesdropping on those conversations, those whispers, those secrets. But now he knew an even stranger experience.

That angel—that—that—_Vicomte_—had sent that letter only –what?—a few days ago. Four—or was it five?—days ago. By now, all those lovely words were inked onto his eyelids and constantly resounding through his mind. The letter itself was already worn from his constant handling. The edges tearing, the folds flattening, the words blurring into nothingness. He had finally slid it into that faded copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ where that damnable gold ribbon was placed.

And, well, sitting in his home, contemplating that letter and that ribbon and that angel, he had started hearing voices. And not just the normal voices either, oh no. This time had been that angel's voice. It hadn't taken him long to realize that he wasn't any more insane than usual.

It had just been that angel walking around, searching out all of Erik's shadows. Going to all the nooks and crannies and drawing his fingers along edges to search out hidden doors. Going to all Erik's corners and whispering there, sending his voice echoing along the tunnels of the cellars. Going to the stage and murmuring words to the floor boards, sending sweetly said words down to Erik's home.

Words like, "I don't want to forget." Words like, "I'm still searching for you." Like, "I will find you." It was…maddening to say the least. And that coming from the Opera Ghost was something.

That damn Vicomte was so…persistent. His fingers dug into the plush chair. Then, realizing, what he was doing, he flexed his hands and pulled them away from the furniture. He stared at the impressions of his fingers for a moment and then, carefully, drew one finger along the soft fabric.

He could just imagine that angel sitting here, worriedly digging his fingers into the chair. Worriedly watching the stage for his dear little Christine. Worriedly watching the rest of the theatre for the feared Phantom.

He scowled at the currently empty stage. The boy may have fallen all over himself to protect his scheming little star, but now they were separated. Now Christine was… He frowned.

Christine was what? He pondered over that for a few minutes, hands absently rubbing along the chair's fabric. Christine, he finally figured, was nothing. The angel had sent _him_ that letter. Not silly little Christine.

But where Christine would accept him, he had pushed the angel away. But then the angel was trying to _find _him. The angel, although unsuccessful, was searching him out. Thoughtfully, he edged his finger along the seam of the chair.

Quickly, he banished the thought of the angel actually finding him. He was the dreaded Opera Ghost! If he didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be found. But the Vicomte…

That beautiful, persistent Vicomte. So beautiful. With that gold hair and cream skin and blue blue eyes. And that smile… that bright happy smile that had actually been for Erik a few times. Christine had never given him smiles. Raoul, knowing who he was, gave him smiles freely.

He slid the palm of his hand against the soft fabric of the chair…and stopped. That beautiful angel. That beautiful angel sitting gracefully in this chair. That beautiful angel, with his fine clothes, in this velvet theatre chair. That beautiful angel with his gold hair and cream skin and blue blue eyes…in this soft, plush chair.

Sprawled in this chair. Cheeks flushed; pink cheeks against white skin against red fabric. Lidded eyes and parted mouth. Hands clenching sporadically in the fabric of this chair.

Erik smoothed a thumb along the curved arm rest, mind racing.

What if…what if that angel had been sitting in this chair, all light colors, dove grey or fawn brown maybe, light against the shadows and the dark fabrics of the theatre box? What if that angel had been sitting here, not worrying about that little traitorous Christine, but thinking about the Opera Ghost? What if that Opera Ghost, stealthy and silent, snuck in and moved furtive fingers along those light fabrics—along flushed cheeks—along gold hair—along parted lips—along cream white skin—

What if those smiles were given lovingly, what if those blue eyes stayed on him constantly, what if those hands twined with his pleasantly?

Just, what if?

Erik moved his hand again, marveling at the softness of the fabric. Like skin— like lips— like—

He stood abruptly, refusing to look at the chair. Sound caught his attention and drew his gaze to the stage once more. Stage hands and divas were spilling onto the floorboards, quickly going over the opera. Tonight's opera.

Everything about him froze. Then, slowly, his eyes moved over to the chair, contemplating.

After a moment's stillness, Erik walked out of the theatre box just as quietly as he had entered it.


	24. Chapter 24

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 24**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#7- think pink; blow **  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13/R**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Raoul sneezed. And sneezed. And sneezed. Once he was done, he leaned back against the plush seat of the theatre box and took deep breathes. He blinked a few times, trying to focus on Christine's shimmering form. At least it was only Christine. If he had had to concentrate on La Carlotta's voice with _this_ headache…well, his head probably would have exploded. After her "dear Piangi's" death, Carlotta had run off to be shrill and confrontational somewhere else. Last he had heard, she was causing some sort of scandal with a rich widowed Baron at some sort of London opera house.

He rolled his head, hoping it would release the tension in his head. No such luck. It was probably a bad idea to have come tonight. Staying at home and sleeping would have probably been better for him. Doing that for the past few days would have been better for him. But no. He had been spending his time slipping past the Giry women and Christine to roam the Opera Populaire, searching out Erik.

Haunting Erik. Beautiful Erik. He could already feel the heat of the fever he had been ignoring, but the feel of the heat increased as blood gathered in his cheeks in a fierce blush. That…that _dream_.

Part of him wanted to be horrified. All those morals his family instilled all those years ago called for him to be mortified by the dream and his reaction to it. But the feelings themselves called for him to relish the dream.

He forced his eyes back to the stage. After a few minutes though, his eyes were slipping shut. Sitting out in the rain to ponder on _that dream_ had caused him to become ill. He should have stayed home. But he pushed the sleepiness away, knowing that if he didn't appear to congratulate Christine after the show, she'd show up at his home and ask his opinion on the opera. She seemed to thrive on his approval. Scratch that. She seemed to thrive on approval _period_. He felt sorry for the man that turned out to be "the one" for her. She'd drive him mad within a week.

Sitting there, thinking of Christine, he suddenly felt cool fingers brush across the back of his neck. He jumped and turned in the seat, eyes darting frantically around to find the culprit. His head was turned, so he didn't see the person that drew a lone finger along the rim of his ear. He jumped again.

Despite the strangeness of the situation, he felt no fear. If the person had wanted to kill him, it would have already happened. As if in testament to his thoughts, the person's cool hand brushed along his cheek, both hand and culprit vanishing as soon as he turned his head in that direction.

Raoul turned again, eyes searching. Nobody was in the theatre box with him. Confused and curious now, he moved from his seat to the hallway beyond the theatre box. A quick glance around showed that there was nobody in the hallway.

Despite that, he didn't make a move back towards the theatre box. Instead, he snuck along the hallway, following an instinct he didn't understand.

He kept following that instinct until he was in the large entrance lobby. Once there, he stopped and looked around. No one. Nothing. Except there, in the corner of his vision, the merest movement of a shadow. Normally, he would have left the matter at that and gone back to his box. But, knowing the Opera Populaire as he did now, made him follow that shifting shadow. It moved along the hallways, twisting and turning until it hit a staircase. Then it vanished.

Raoul did not let that stop him. Despite his headache, despite his fatigue, despite his dizziness, despite his fever and coughs and sneezes, despite the tirade he would have from Christine later from missing a part of the opera, he moved up and up and up that staircase, ignoring the spinning of his head; he did not see that shadow again, but he went with the demanding feeling in his gut.

By the time he got to the end of the staircase, he was at the top of the Opera Populaire on the roof. There still were the same domed windows there along with the frighteningly large stone gargoyles. Still the dizzying height and the bright moon.

And, unfortunately, still the rain clouds. And the _rain_.

He narrowed his eyes at the dreary rain clouds, cursing them. The wind blew fiercely at him in response. He was already sick due to the rain. Now he was just going to get sicker. Which meant less time searching for Erik.

Raoul looked down, noting that his clothes were already soaked through. His cough tried to gain his attention, but he ignored the itching in his throat to frown at his wet shoes. Well. There was no way he would be able to finish sitting through the opera now. Not like he had been able to finish it earlier, with the whole strange face-toucher in the theatre box…

Reminded of why he was on the roof, he looked around. Of course, nothing. He sighed, bringing a hand up to rub his temples.

Really, he had probably imagined the whole thing. Being sick had probably just made him delirious. Running about and searching for Erik the past few days had done nothing good for him.

He pushed his wet bangs back and started making his way back to the door to the mysterious staircase. Then a shifting shadow at the edge of the roof caught his attention. It lingered at the front of the gargoyle before merging with the shadow underneath the stone sentinel.

Raoul really wanted to ignore the shadow. This all was simply the makings of his fevered mind. But his own stubbornness and curiosity pushed him over to the edge of the roof. Still nothing.

Hesitantly, he leaned over the edge of the roof, head spinning at the sheer drop of the building. As tired and as dizzy as he was, it was no surprise when the wind turned his way and gave a particularly strong gust that he fell.

His world spun and then jerked to a sudden stop, pain searing through his wrist. When he looked down, all he could see was ground. When he looked up however, he could see dark dark skies and a pale face, a dark arm and a pale hand gripping his wrist. The world started to spin around him, the rain making everything blur and bleed together, and then everything went dark.


	25. Chapter 25

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 25**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#11-mission possible; limitation **  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13/R**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

--

His hands were slipping. Erik _growled_ out something foul and fierce and tightened his grip. Oh no. He was not letting the stupid boy go. If the boy was going to die, it was going to be by his hands. Or by his Punjab. Nothing else. The idiot was not going to die by— by _falling_! That was just ridiculous!

Erik shifted and planted his feet flat against the edge of the roof. He huffed, bit out, "Angels are supposed to _fly_, Vicomte—not fall," and _pulled_. The Vicomte came with the movement and was tugged awkwardly over the edge, body sprawling inelegantly on the roof.

Yes, the sprawl itself was inelegant, but the parted mouth, the wet hair, the clingy clothes…That was pure and beautiful in a way that caused Erik's heart to stutter. He forced a scowl to cover the feeling and hovered over the boy.

The boy was breathing, that much was evident. His cheeks were flushed also. Erik half wanted to think that it was a prolonged side-effect of those slight caresses Erik had given the boy; the rain was cool though and that, surely, would have been enough for the heat of those touches to fade. He also wasn't waking up.

"Vicomte?" A quick tap to the cheek that quickly turned into Erik pressing the back of his hand to the Vicomte's forehead. Heat seared his skin. Pulling back with a curse, Erik started tugging the boy close. The rain would do nothing good for the boy's illness. Erik would have to take the boy to his lair—keep him close and nurse him back to health.

His mind skittered around how he had stolen Christine with tricks and song, had stolen her to his home and kept her there. His mind wandered around those dusty boxes of ideas of keeping Christine there until she loved him. His eyes went down to the man cradled close to him and he wondered.

With another curse, he pushed those thoughts away and stood, dragging the angel up with him. Fool boy. The Vicomte _had_ to know he was sick. Why was he going to the opera to see a silly little diva and then running about in the rain to chase a shadow? Idiotic, persistent Vicomte.

He glared at nothing in particular when he realized that, for the fever to be as high as it was, the angel had to have been sick for a few days. And for the past few days, the Vicomte had been running around the opera house…while sick.

When the angel was coherent and well, they were going to talk about things like _rest_ and _illnesses_ and _healing_. And if the idiotic angel didn't listen, Erik would just have to tie him up. He paused in his trek to the roof door and rethought that. Then he continued dragging the angel back into the opera house, deciding that he may just do that anyway.

--

Being the dreaded Opera Ghost meant that Erik was used to walking through the shadows of the Opera Populaire on silent cat feet. He was stealthy. He was furtive. He was sneaky. Trying to be invisible his whole life had made the skills easy to acquire and use.

Being the dreaded Opera Ghost while dragging an ill Vicomte to his underground lair made that stealth, that furtiveness, that sneakiness, almost completely vanish. Not only did he have to carry that near-dead-weight around in areas that could usually hold one person, but the proximity to all that warmth was…trying.

Erik allowed some more curses to pass when he pulled the Vicomte into a shadowy nook. A burly stage hand and a tiny ballet rat slipped by them, eyes only on each other. Silence with the exception of the reverberating aria Christine was going through. He allowed a moment to savor the warmth of the angel. Then he pushed away from the wall, keeping the boy on his shoulder once more.

--

He simply could not do it. It wasn't as if he had enough for his mind to deal with, with that silly ribbon and that damned letter. But now… The clothes were wet. The boy was already sick. He knew what he had to do to keep the boy from descending even further into illness.

He had to get the clothes off the boy. There was a pause as he stared at the angel sprawled on the dark sheets of his bed. His mind wanted to run with that, take that image and twist it to all his fantasies…

But no. The boy had to heal first.

Some small part of his mind—the sole part that knew that he was heading to the lunacy he had wanted to avoid by avoiding the Vicomte—was screaming in dawning horror as he stripped the boy and wrapped him in dry blankets.

He knew the road he was heading down. It was the same one he had gone down with Christine. His plans had been shattered once before because of this stubborn angel. That small part of his mind wanted to know what would happen if his plans shattered once more. The rest of his mind was trying to catch up and going: _what plans? You are not going down that road once more._

--

Once he had changed into some dry clothes himself, he had gathered a dish of cool water and a slightly clean rag. With that, he wiped the boy's face and forehead, trying to break the fever. A few hours of that made the fever decrease; the dark flush of his cheeks lightened to a pale pink. The angel's breathing came easier and he settled into an easy sleep.

Erik couldn't resist the urge to run his fingers through the gold-blond hair. When the angel leaned sleepily into his touch, Erik couldn't stop the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. Then, after a moment's hesitation, Erik leaned down and brushed a kiss over the cool forehead. When the angel—_Raoul_ smiled in his sleep, Erik sat back on the bed, his own smile on his face.


	26. Chapter 26

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 26**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **#34- pins and needles; headache **  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13/R**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Madame Giry frowned at the worried coachman.

At this negative sign, he started babbling once more. "I-I-I mean, M'dame, I went in to see if he was there an' he wasn't! He just upped and vanished, M'dame. Not m' fault, it's not."

She dipped her head, murmured a quiet, "Go on, Monsieur, I will find him and send him home," and turned to head back into the Opera Populaire. Her frown turned into a stern glare when she found herself surrounded by delicate mademoiselles fluttering around Monsieur Andre and Firmin. They, however, only flicked their gazes over to her and, seeing she was bypassing them completely, went back to their friends.

Alone in a shadowy hallway, Madame Giry allowed herself to stop and sigh, bringing one thin hand up to rest against her temples. Whatever had Monsieur Vicomte gotten himself into now? Meg had told her about Erik warning Christine away. And she had seen for herself how Erik had disdained the letter the Vicomte had sent. So what had happened?

She started walking again, going faster this time, lifting her skirts a little.

Well, the Vicomte had shown up to the opera, that much was obvious. And she had already seen Christine, without the Chagny around, so they hadn't gone out. Maybe Erik had seen the Vicomte and had grabbed him. There was animosity there, after all. And Erik was, well, _Erik_. There was probably some whole convoluted scheme behind all this. One that probably ended with someone dying.

Mouth pursing in a thin line, she quickened her steps.

* * *

The portcullis was up. As Madame Giry picked her way across crumbling rock, she eyed the rusty edges of the gate. It was _up_. That meant Erik didn't think anybody was going to come down here.

Her eyes moved restlessly, searching for signs of what had happened.

The gondola was still, the paddle balanced on the seat gleaming wetly. Many of the candle flames had guttered out, throwing fierce shadows across the lair. The organ was deathly silent. The archway to Erik's room had dim light spilling out.

Both eyebrows knitted together now, Madame Giry moved quickly towards the room. When she entered and saw the scene she stumbled upon, she stopped, one hand going up to her aching head once more. Only a second of seeing _this_ and she could already tell that oh so many problems could arise.

The Vicomte was curled in the small bed, wrapped loosely in dark bedding. Erik sat at the edge of the bed, carefully balancing a bowl of water on one knee. He was using a wet cloth to dab at the Vicomte's forehead. Immediately, her mind jumped to some sort of head injury, probably due to a fight between the two. But then she took in the way the Chagny's face was flushed. The way the water in the dish and the cloth Erik was using was clear. The way Erik was doing something for the man he had proclaimed to hate. The way Erik leaned forward. The way his eyes _shone_.

Her voice was a hoarse whisper. "What have you gotten yourself into Erik?"

Erik just smiled, never taking his eyes off the Vicomte. "What is it to you, Madame?"

Madame Giry's lips thinned into a line. "What is it to me?" She waved one hand at him. "I am the one that ends up tending to you when you are injured and heart-broken." The _from Christine _hung unsaid between them.

He tilted his head a little, considering her words. Slowly, he dipped the cloth in the water. Then, without his usual vitriol, "This is different."

"This is different in that this is the Vicomte de Chagny and in that he is the patron of this opera house." She attempted to turn away, but her eyes stayed on his hands. Strange that they were fluttering so gently over this Chagny. "Are you even thinking?"

Erik actually stopped and turned to look at her. "Yes, Madame, I am. I have thought quite a lot over this matter."

She took in the way his eyes still had that light in them and the calm smile on his face. And she knew just what Erik had done. "You have fallen in love with him, haven't you?"

The calm smile vanished, as if it had never been there. "Whatever are you talking about?" The acid was back in his voice.

Madame Giry didn't bother answering the question, opting to say, "You are going to get yourself killed," instead. He scoffed and turned back to the cloth, wringing it out fiercely. She took it as the negative answer it was meant to be. "This is a _Chagny_. A _Vicomte_. You kidnap him and you will have his family after you."

He reached out, dabbing at the Vicomte's flushed face once more. "Why do you think it is a kidnapping? You and I both know he has been searching for me."

She frowned at the still Vicomte. "He is mad to do so." She paused and thought that over. "That is why you are attracted to him. You are both mad."

He let out a laugh, one surprisingly free of an edge. "If that is what you need to believe, fine."

She watched him care over the Vicomte for another few minutes. Finally, she said, "I need to get him back to the Chagny estate."

Erik whipped around to glare at her. "I am not trying to kill, as you can see. I am taking care of him. Moving him will only worsen his fever again."

"Fever?" she inquired but then brushed it off. "If I do not send him home, his family will come looking for him. They will look here."

She could see the way his jaw tightened into a stubborn set. Her thoughts raced, picking through ideas for a solution. Finally, "He would not want it this way." Really, a shot in the dark, but it had the wanted effect.

He scowled, fingers clenching around the cloth, and then tossed it away. He moved the dish away roughly, water sloshing, as he got up angrily. "Fine. Take him." His movements were quick and sharp as he stomped out of the room.

She pressed the heel of one hand to her temple. Oh, Erik gave her such a headache sometimes. Especially when it came to the matters of the heart. "First, Christine. Now, a Chagny… Who next?"

She looked down at the still body of the Vicomte, sighed, and moved towards the bed.


	27. Chapter 27

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 27**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **# 21- the Devil's Advocate; advocatus diaboli **  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13/R**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Madame Giry was half tempted to drop the Chagny where they were and just leave him there. They, however, were still on the stairs leading from Erik's home to the main floor of the opera house and it would probably be a bad idea to just leave the Vicomte there. That, after all, would just send the Chagnies coming after the Vicomte anyway. And then, if she did just drop him here, Erik's home could possibly, just possibly, be found.

The other half of her mind—the instructor part of her—wanted to turn around and just slap the Chagny leaning on her shoulder and order him to wake up enough to get him to the main floor. But even as he dragged his feet, even as he stumbled, even as he sleepily muttered words to her, she could feel the heat radiating off of him, testifying to his illness. The man was _sick_. She would just have to take care of him. And later, she would yell at Erik.

Using the edge of her elbow, she pushed one of the secret doors leading from the cellars to the main floor of the opera house open. Light from the candles in the hallway flooded the set of stairs, highlighting their bodies.

Once the light hit the Vicomte, he turned a little and pressed his face to her neck. "Why…why are we up here?" he asked, words fuzzy.

She held the Vicomte upright as she attempted to pull him through the door. He, however, was not budging. He lifted his head for only a moment to stare at her. Then, again from him, "Why are we up here? We're supposed to be with Erik."

There was a second where something in her chest tightened and her breathing caught in her throat. The Vicomte knew Erik's name. Even with Erik's love for Christine, the girl had never been told a name. Angel of Music, and then later as the Opera Ghost and the Phantom of the Opera, but never Erik. Had this bout of madness gripped Erik so hard to lead him to revealing his name?

The Vicomte shut his eyes but kept his head up. "Erik was taking care of me," he whispered to her. A smile appeared. "He was making me better." His voice trailed off sleepily as he shifted and pressed his face to her neck once more.

At the feel of his heated skin pressed to her neck, Madame Giry felt an unaccustomed flash of sympathy. She helped him through the secret door and, unladylike, kicked it shut with her foot. Then, feeling like she had when Meg had been just a babe, she shifted her balance, trying to help the Vicomte, and said, "You'll feel better once we get you back home, Monsieur Vicomte."

The Chagny huffed out a laugh as they started stumbling their way to the main entrance. "I felt just fine with Erik." Madame Giry forced herself to keep walking. No, no, she would not stop and demand to know what the Vicomte meant by that. Chagny continued, "Erik was taking care of me. That means he cares, right?" As his face was still pressed to her neck, she could feel the muscles bunching as he smiled.

And, oh, it was cruel of her, but she _had _to do it. "No, Monsieur. Erik cares for no one. He loves the idea of loving and being loved. But that is it."

He moved again, lifting his head once more. His eyes were squinted against the light, but he was looking at her, searching her expression for something. Then he smiled again. It was a bright young smile, one filled with love and life. "No, you're wrong this time, Madame Giry." He pressed his face back to her neck. She could feel the words hit her neck as he said, "And it doesn't matter anyway. I still care for him even if he doesn't care for me."

This time, she did stop. The Vicomte did not notice. He just shifted a little more and continued. "I mean, that did not stop me earlier, when I thought he still hated me. But now…" He sighed. "I think he can love, Madame. He, at least, has shown the ability to care." She could feel the weight of the coming words, so she said nothing. "He did not let me fall off the roof. That, I believe, is a sign."

Ah. She should have expected it, with these two. Unexpected, really, but still. How had the Vicomte gotten onto the roof anyway? She looked down at the mess of blond hair on her shoulder and let it go. Maybe, at another time, she could really ask what he meant.

She attempted to start again, but the Vicomte did not move. "Why can't I go back to Erik?" A slight whine was present in his voice.

Madame Giry pursed her lips in frustration. "He did not want you there," she answered shortly, pulling the Chagny to continue walking.

A pause of quiet from him. Then, softly, "I think you are lying, Madame. If he did not want me there, he would have left me on the roof."

Still walking, she considered the thought. Yes, the Vicomte had a point. She glanced at the blond head again. How did this mere Vicomte know so much about Erik? That was definitely not a good sign. She had to make sure the Vicomte stayed away from Erik, lest he set the Opera Ghost spiraling into rage and get killed.

"He did not want a dead Vicomte on his roof, Monsieur." Another lie, yes, but maybe it would succeed in keeping the Vicomte away.

Inelegantly, the Chagny snorted. "If he cared that much about a dead body, he would have let me just fall off the roof. Others would clean it and people would merely think I was insane or depressed."

Madame Giry frowned. One so sick should not have the capabilities to think that out. She wanted to say something about how Erik did not want dead Vicomte in front of his opera house, but they both knew that Erik would not care over that. If things were going right in the opera house, then things were going right in Erik's world.

Once more, she glanced at the Vicomte. Maybe he had just thought all of it out already. Justifying for himself why he should—what was it?—"care" for the feared Opera Ghost.

One misstep from either and they would descend into fighting. She simply wanted to wash her hands of the problem. But her boy, her Erik, was _in love_. Again. And this Vicomte, this mere boy, seemed to care just the same for Erik.

Finally, the doors. She dragged the Vicomte over and called to the coachman there. Ignoring the muttered words from the Vicomte (_"I'd be just fine with Erik, Madame Giry. He was taking care of me."_), she told the coachman where to take him. Just before she passed the Vicomte over to the coachman, the Chagny leaned over, smile bright on his flushed face, and said, "Tell Erik thank you. And that he can't hide from me now." His smile widened just a touch more before the coachman started to help him into the carriage.

Madame Giry watched the black coach start and vanish in the night. Her Erik was in love…and the Vicomte seemed to feel the same. And, with their stubbornness, trying to stop either of them would be as productive as banging her head against a brick wall. She would just have to pray that neither would make that fatal misstep and throw themselves into fighting once more. For her, their, the whole Opera Populaire's sake, she would just have to hope that this infatuation would either mutually end…or somehow work out.


	28. Chapter 28

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 28**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **# 22- shadow; flame; footfall; ouch!**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13/R**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Two days. It had only been two days. And yet he was actually worried about the damn Vicomte. About—damn the boy!—_Raoul_. He worried. What else was he supposed to do all day in the opera cellars? Compose something? Bah. With the thought of the Vicom—of _Raoul_, flushed and gasping for breath, feverish and ill, nothing could grab his full attention. He could have went and watched the ballet rats, possibly even given them a scare, but he figured that if Madame Giry saw him, she'd smack him with that cane of hers. She had not looked pleased about dealing with an ill Chagny.

And so this was what it came to then. Here he was, in the middle of the night, on the Chagny estate, fiddling with the lock on the balcony doors that led to Raoul's room. The door gave a slight click and opened.

Damn infuriating Vicomte. Being sick and…and….and making him worry like this. If only the fool would not go walking around in the rain when he was sick. Erik would just have to tie the damn boy down. Scowling, he pocketed the lock pick and entered the room, silent.

Erik could see only the vague outline of the bed due to the sliver of nightlight let in by the open door. There was the curve of a naked calf outlined in silver and then the shadowy pits and valleys of a sheet covered torso. The bright white of the pillow was visible in the dark, but shadows took over where Raoul had buried his head. Carefully, Erik eased the door shut and went across the room, sitting lightly on the edge of the bed.

Even in the dark of the room, Erik could see the movement of the sheet as Raoul breathed. The idiot Vicomte was perfectly fine.

His hand was steady as he reached out and brushed a few strands of hair away from Raoul's face. The boy sighed a little and actually leaned into the touch. Raoul's cheek was cooler than what it had been, but it was still a touch too warm. Erik drew back his hand slowly, letting his fingers linger along the soft skin.

It was then, of course, that Raoul had to wake up. His eyes opened slowly, blue eyes unfocused. When they did focus, it was on Erik. Raoul smiled slowly. "Are you a dream?" he whispered.

Erik snorted and looked away. Then, saying in defense because he was caught off guard, "Do you dream about me much, Vicomte?"

The blush that came onto Raoul's face was visible even in the dark. Erik chuckled and gave into the urge to draw his hand along Raoul's cheek once more. The blush deepened, heating the skin against Erik's palm. Raoul sighed, sleepily, and pressed voluntarily into the touch.

Raoul's voice was rough with sleep as he repeated, "Do I dream about you?" There was the faint gleam of teeth as he smiled. "Who wouldn't dream about the haunting, alluring Opera Ghost?"

This angel thought him alluring? "Haunting" was an inescapable description when one was the Opera Ghost. But alluring? Even Christine had never…

Raoul turned to ghost his mouth along Erik's palm in a faint kiss. Then, quietly, "I never did thank you."

Erik swallowed to clear his throat and softly asked, "Thank me for what?"

The mouth against his hand parted as the boy smiled again. "You saved my life and took care of me." The softest exhalation of breath as the boy breathed. "That deserves thanks. So thank you."

Erik shook his head even while knowing the action probably couldn't be seen. "Do not thank me. I saved you for selfish reasons."

Raoul went still. Then, after a moment of silence, "What were those reasons?" Hesitantly said with a tightness in his voice that had not been there seconds before.

Foolish boy. Raoul was probably thinking that Erik just wanted to brush him off once more. His words had been misunderstood. Ah, at least actions could not be misconstrued. Leaning down, Erik brushed his mouth over Raoul's forehead. Softly, gently, as to not frighten.

He started to pull back, but Raoul moved, hands going around Erik's neck to drag Erik down in a slight kiss. It a mere pressure, a mere touch of mouth against mouth. Simple, really, compared to the hot, open kiss Christine had given to him all those months ago as payment for her dear Raoul.

Raoul let go of him and lay back against the pillows. His voice was sleepy as he murmured, "I like those kinds of reasons." A sigh as he shifted, sheet moving along his body. "I knew Madame Giry was wrong." Then, softly, as he drifted back to sleep, "What a nice dream."

Silly angel. Erik gently unwound the loosely clasped hands from around his neck and placed them on the bed. There was only a moment where he stayed, watching the up/down motion of Raoul's breathing. Then, quiet as a shadow, he vanished out the balcony doors.

* * *

Madame Giry took one look at him and sighed. "You were there, weren't you Erik?"

"I have no idea what you are talking of, Madame."

"Erik!" Her voice was sharp, just like the whip the gypsies had sometimes yielded.

He stopped his stroll to the cellar stairs to turn and look at her. "Yes, Madame?"

Madame Giry's glare would have cowed many. He just returned it with a raised eyebrow. After a moment she sighed again and started towards her rooms. "Do not let this one end in disaster."

He frowned at her silhouette before starting his walk again. This one would not end in disaster. His step faltered. When had he decided to let this go on? He could remember the soft pressure of Raoul's mouth, first on his hand, then on his own mouth, warm and kind. Ah, yes, that was when he decided to let this continue. He continued walking, a mere shadow in the hallway.


	29. Chapter 29

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 29**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **# 19- home body; bubbles; stay**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13/R**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Raoul glanced around surreptitiously as possible and then quietly nudged the painting over. There was a moment where (_oh no_) the painting did not want to move. Then, slowly, it started inching its way sideways. Breathing a sigh of relief, Raoul took another quick glance around, half expecting to Madame Giry to swoop in out of nowhere and beat him with that cane of hers in the hope some sense (_or sanity_) would settle in, and then edged behind the painting to the hidden stairs.

My, he was lucky today. Christine had not tried to drag him to dinner, opting instead to preen in front of the newest batch of admirers from tonight's opera. Upon seeing him, Madame Giry and her daughter had merely given him a hard look and had refrained from coming over to scold him about his lack of sanity. And after a day of rest, he was feeling better. Which meant that various nobles had simply given him sympathetic looks instead of coming over to remark upon his paleness or look of illness or sudden absence from the other night's opera. And—the best thing yet—the painting that led to the stairs Madame Giry had led him to all those weeks ago, the time after he had thrown dice and had left everything to chance, fate, destiny, the painting that had been mysteriously sealed during the days and days he had searched for Erik, the painting that Madame Giry had dragged him up to just the other night…that particular painting, evidently, was unsealed once more.

Even here he was lucky. The torches that lined the walls were lit. He did not question it, deciding instead to just grab one and go with it. For a moment, his optimism faltered; he peered over the edge of the stairs, eyes searching for any sign of life in the flat blackness. His optimism completely failed when it hit that Erik still might not want to see him…even though that visit from the other night indicated otherwise…

Firmly, he pushed the thought away. It had been a _dream_…right? There was a flickering light to his eyes as he frowned at the darkness around him. Then, shaking his head, he started down the stairs.

* * *

Erik crumpled the sheet of paper and threw it into the amassing pile on the ground. This—yes, this, this _composing_—this was not working. Which made absolutely no sense.

Due to Raoul gracelessly sliding into his life, feeling had returned—even if that feeling was annoyance—and music was floating around in his head. The boy (_Raoul-angel_) was doing just fine at his estate. The opera house was, for once, silent. His alarms were not going off. The ink and paper were fresh, the organ was well tuned, the candles were giving off a romantic yet ethereal glow…

So what was wrong?

He stared at the cream paper that gleamed gold—the gray and white feathered nib pen with ink glistening wetly at its tip—the organ keys that were lustrously glossy in the candlelight…

Nothing. Erik gritted his teeth in frustration. WHY, goddamnit, was nothing—

Then the alarms went off. Erik hung his head, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Then, grabbing the obligatory Punjab, he stood and started walking towards the stairs, wondering who the hell would interrupt him. If it were Madame Giry and that damn cane of hers…

But no. It was just Raoul, stumbling down the stairs, a lit torch in one hand. As Erik quickly tossed the Punjab to one side, he took note of how the boy looked rumpled and color had risen in his cheeks. The boy used one free hand to try and straighten his coat, but when he spotted Erik, he stopped the futile action and gave a bright grin.

"Hello, Erik." Simply, easily, said as if this were an everyday thing. As if…well, as if Raoul did not mind coming down to the opera house cellars and visiting the feared opera ghost. Strange, that. Just as strange as kissing said Opera Ghost without a qualm.

"Why are you down here, Vicomte?" Once upon a time, his voice would have been harsh, the words cruel and biting. Now they were not. It was a conscious effort to make his voice neutral instead of sliding into something—ah, what was the word the boy had used?—_alluring_.

Once upon a time, the boy's smile would have faltered. The boy would have spoken harshly back, words sharp with anger. Now…now his voice was kind, his words gentle.

Raoul's smile actually widened. "I have come to thank you. You have saved my life, after all."

Erik raised one eyebrow. Was the boy simply ignoring what had happened at the Chagny estate? Or had he forgotten? "You have already thanked me."

"I…I have?" Confusion spanning the words, furrowing his brow. His face was white. Slowly, Erik nodded. A flush crawled up the boy's neck and cheeks. The boy eventually stammered out, "I thought…I mean…That wasn't a dream?"

Erik took a few easy steps closer, getting into the boy's space. Softly, "Do you wish it to be a dream?" And that was the question that had the possibility of bringing everything tumbling down. Madame Giry had foreseen this, hadn't she?

Raoul stared blankly at him. His eyes were clear, but the flush on his cheeks was still present. And Erik was suddenly worried. Quickly, he raised a hand and pressed it to Raoul's cheek. The boy startled at the touch; he was even more surprised when Erik cursed and drew back his hand.

Erik snatched the torch from the boy's hand and tossed it into the lake. Then, firmly but gently, he grabbed the boy's arm and started tugging him away.

Raoul was baffled. "Erik?"

Erik stopped by his bed and started tugging the boy's jacket off him. Now, the boy started struggling. "Erik, what are you doing?"

"You're still sick." Raoul was still as Erik tossed his jacket somewhere and started maneuvering him towards the bed.

Raoul smacked the hands away. "I'm fine."

Erik threw him a flat look and gave his chest a small push. Raoul stumbled backwards and fell on the bed. "You're sick," Erik said to the lost look. "And foolish. You should have been resting tonight instead of coming here."

Raoul raised himself up on his elbows. "I'm fine. You're just overprotective." There was a slight pout as he said, "And I had to come here to thank you." The color in his cheeks heightened.

Erik bent down, face startlingly close to Raoul's. "As I've said, you have already thanked me." He could have leaned down those last few inches, kissed that mouth again, seen those blue eyes flutter close…but the red in those cheeks called him back to the fact that the fool boy was still sick. Just a little sick, but still. Sick.

Erik pulled back and dragged a chair close to the bed. "Stay here for the night. Tomorrow you can go." The boy looked ready to protest so he tacked on, "If you need me to send a note to your home, I will. But since you obviously cannot tell when you are ill, you will have to stay here for the night."

The boy actually relented and leaned back against the bed. Erik was surprised when the boy's eyes fluttered closed in only a few seconds. The boy hadn't answered his question…but that could wait until the boy was better.


	30. Chapter 30

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 30**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **# 31- the library; bookshop**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13/R**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Raoul woke slowly. There was a moment of disorientation as he blinked sleepily at the jagged, cave-like ceiling; then the memories of the night before resettled. Color rose in his cheeks as he realized that he had let himself be manipulated the night before by Erik— really, unsurprising as it was the scheming Opera Ghost that had manipulated him and that Raoul, still a touch unwell, was off in his scheme-avoiding tendencies that were necessary to survive as one with aristocratic blood.

Carefully, he stretched, feeling well and healthy once more, and then collapsed back into the nest of sleep-warmed blankets. His gaze flickered over to where Erik had been last night; he expected—and half-desired—to see the Phantom there, probably annoyed and accompanied by his customary scowl, but the chair was empty excepting a small sheaf of paper. Still in that half-asleep, half-awake state, he reached slowly out and grabbed the paper. Although there were only a few candles lit, there was one by the bed, so he leaned over and read the few inked words there.

_Alarms went off. Probably rats. Do not move._

Raoul frowned at the paper, set it back down on the chair, and snuggled back into his nest. Alarms were never good. And if it were rats…the true question behind that line was whether it was rodent-rats or ballet-rats. A rodent could just be pushed aside or killed…a ballet-rat—a young girl from the ballet corps—could not. Erik, however, might not think that; Erik might just try to treat a ballet-rat as a rodent-rat…and not in the push-aside sense. Raoul frowned at that. Hopefully…

No. He would not hope for something that was impossible. Erik was the dreaded Opera Ghost: a madman that had killed and probably would kill again. There was no avoiding that. Just…he cared for such an insane ghost?

He glanced over at the note again. It appeared that Erik had some inkling of concern for him. Or, at the least, some sense of reluctant responsibility, according to that last bit of note. He could just imagine the irritation flashing in the green-gold eyes as Erik penned those words.

Raoul shifted, tugged at the blankets. Eyed the note and weighed the consequences of going against those last words. Figured that Erik would not hesitate in knocking him unconscious and dragging him back to the bed to the tune of _Raoul is still sick_. But he felt better. Well. Healthy. And he was bored.

Carefully, he edged out of bed and, once standing, stretched like a cat. As he felt the healthy pull of muscle, he wondered what Erik would have done had he been sitting in the room. There was a tug in the pit of his stomach as he recalled the flash of heat he had seen cross Erik's face the day before. Would that look show again?

He swallowed, pushed the thought to the back of his mind for later contemplation, and then started walking. The room was spacious, filled with unlit candles, but ended in an open arch covered by wine-colored curtains. He pushed the curtains back and continued. There was the placid lake, the few glowing candles, the dais with the lovely organ, the covered mirrors…

There was another curtain-covered doorway. When he pushed the curtain back, he was greeted with the sight of shelves upon shelves of books. As he skimmed the spines, he noted that many of the titles were faded, as if they had been handled many times. A small table in the middle of the alcove bore a book, one that had a title on the cover that was not faded. _The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet_.

Unsurprising that Erik would have this in his collection. A tragic romance with star-crossed lovers…just like Erik and Christine. Raoul physically recoiled from the book, shocked by the bitterness of that thought. Was he…was he jealous? He had been, of Erik, once. But now—of Christine?

Hesitantly, he flipped the book open. The pages fanned; the book fell open. Raoul's eyebrows shot up. There, in the middle of this book, upon dry pages and surprisingly faded words, was his old golden ribbon. Erik had kept it? He reached out and drew a finger along the silkiness of the ribbon.

The placement in this particular book could only mean a positive thing…right? But, there, along one edge, was a scorch mark. Had Erik tried to burn it? Or had it simply fallen into the flame of a candle?

A noise behind him made him spin around. Erik was there, scowling, eyes dark. A Punjab was in his hand. "Feeling better, Vicomte?"

Raoul's gaze flickered back to the ribbon for a mere second before returning to Erik. To the Punjab. "Yes. Much." He ducked his head. "Thank you." His eyes went to the Punjab again. "Was it rodents?"

A crease appeared on Erik's brow. "Ballet rats. Silly girls got lost." He pushed aside the curtain and walked out of the alcove, Raoul following. The Punjab was tossed to the side; Raoul followed the movement of the lasso with his eyes, but he kept following.

As Erik walked into the room, Raoul asked, "And what of the girls?" He almost feared the answer. Feared an insane grin appearing along with a confirmation of their demise.

Erik scoffed as he tossed Raoul his jacket. "Had to trick them back onto the right path. Little fools." Erik eyed Raoul; a flash of heat appeared in the green-gold eyes and then vanished just as abruptly. "You seem well enough, Vicomte. I will lead you back to the main floors." Then Erik turned and started walking, Raoul stumbling after him.

Raoul tugged on his jacket, curious as to the change that had come over Erik. Maybe Erik cared nothing for him. That would explain this. But what of the ribbon? And the looks? And…the kiss? Raoul flushed, but it went unnoticed in the dark of the cellar tunnels. There had to be care there, somewhere.

Light flooded the tunnel as Erik pushed open a door, one that was secreted behind a painting. There was a breathless moment as Raoul passed him to walk into the hall. Heat rolled along the planes of Erik's face; Raoul's gut tightened in response. Then Erik's face shuttered close. "Good day, Vicomte," he murmured and disappeared behind the painting.

Raoul frowned at the painting. Not only was there the ribbon and the looks and the kiss, but there was also the question.

(_Do you wish it to be a dream?_)

Did he wish for the kiss to be a mere dream? Of course not. But, while he knew that with his heart and soul, Erik did not. And, now, he was going to have to tell that to Erik. With a smile on his face and a bounce in his step, Raoul strolled out of the Opera Populaire.


	31. Chapter 31

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 31**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **# 23- roses; daises; carnations; water lilies; any random flower**  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13/R**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Raoul leaned down and smelled the roses. Sweet, but not overpowering. He stood back up and looked down on them. Dark red petals upon dark green stems. Loose buds that threatened to be fully bloomed within a week. These were perfect.

Gathering the roses, he smiled at the old lady behind the stand. When she merely showed him the palm of one wrinkled hand, he deposited a few coins to her. She gave him a toothy smile and pocketed the coins as he turned and started walking.

He was near the opera house when he stopped. Then he dug one hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a black ribbon. Carefully, he wound the ribbon around the long stems and smiled when they roses pulled together beautifully. Smoothing the edges of the ribbon down, he contemplated the roses.

Originally, he had wanted to use a gold ribbon to wrap around the stems. But he had thought about it and had decided that it would probably look funny that way. It would be better if he just stuck with a simple black ribbon, like the ones Erik used on Christine's bouquets. The overall effect was simple but sweet. Hopefully, it would get his message across. If it didn't…

"Raoul?" Raoul turned and met Christine's shocked gaze. She was wrapped in a light cloak and had a basket draped over one curved arm. Christine, eyes on his face and not on the flowers, smiled and approached him hesitantly. "Whatever are you doing here Raoul?"

Then her eyes went to the roses. Her face went white and the basket dropped to the street as she brought her hands to her mouth to cover her gasp. She leaned forward, hands going to her throat to wrap convulsively in her cloak, and eyes darting, whispered, "Did He give those to you?"

He used his free hand to tug hers from the cloak; her hands went from the cloak to his hand within seconds. Smiling gently at her, he said, "No. I'm giving them to him."

She drew back sharply. "Why would you do something like that?" Her gaze went to the faces of the people streaming around them. "You would just be—" she cut off with a strangled sound but continued with obvious struggle "—encouraging him."

He couldn't help it: he threw back his head and laughed. She looked askance at him, mouth pursed in a pout, but he explained. "Christine, I want to encourage him."

Her eyes widened to comical proportions. Then, decisively, "You are still ill. You must be." The grip on his hand tightened.

"No, Christine, I am not ill," he tried. "I am merely…happy." The smile on his face could not be contained.

She eyed him. Her grip relaxed. Her pout became a slight frown. Slowly, she said, "You are happy. But why? You are dealing with the Opera Ghost."

Laughing lightly, he brought her close. "Christine, I dare say I am in love with him."

She stared blankly at him for a moment; her eyes went down to the roses. "You…love him? But…but why? He is mad."

He pulled her into a slow waltz, uncaring that they were surrounded by people. "I cannot explain. And he is mad, but, according to most, so am I."

Christine still looked shocked; Raoul couldn't decide if it was from his declaration or their impromptu waltz. Breaking through the shock, she hissed, "He is a murderer."

He forced their waltz to a stop. "Yes, he is. I cannot condone that, but I do still care for him." Her mouth was open in a dazed, but unbecoming, gape. Raoul swept her basket from the ground, situated it over her arm, and set a light kiss on her cheek. "I know you will not understand nor approve, but I will go through with this."

He tried to move around her, but she grabbed his arm and pulled him around to face her. "But Raoul! This is the Opera Ghost! He will use you and then kill you!" She enveloped him in a tight, desperate hug. "I do not want that to happen to you."

He pulled from her hug, smiling again. "I've said this before, Christine. I will be fine. He will not harm me."

Although he started walking, she grabbed his arm again and dragged him back to her. She opened her mouth, probably ready to spout some more concerns about this, but a hand shot out from the crowd of people and grabbed her arm. This hand was stronger than her as she was spun around, away from Raoul. Facing this cloaked figure, Christine gasped and paled once more. Raoul, however, smiled, figuring whom it was.

Before he could open his mouth though, the specter turned to him and hissed, "Go, Vicomte. I will meet you in my home." A sharp smile appeared under the glossy white mask. "I must have a talk with Christine."

Raoul frowned a little. "Erik…" he cautioned.

Erik's smile was replaced by a condescending sneer. "I will do nothing to your little Christine. I will use _words_ to speak with the diva. Now go." When Raoul looked ready to protest the order, Erik rolled his eyes and bit out, "Please, Vicomte."

Raoul eyed them for a moment and then turned and started walking towards the Opera Populaire once more. Erik grinned and turned around to face Christine.


	32. Chapter 32

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 32**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **# 26- oxymoronic; ananias **  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13/R**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Christine's face was white, eyes huge and dark in her small face. Erik tamped down his grin. Really, this was her own fault. If she had just left Raoul alone…but no. Silly little tampering Christine just had to stick her nose in places it didn't belong. Her wrist, in his grip, was so tiny and fragile; he could break her arm easily.

She exhaled shakily, licked her lips, and forced out a whispery, "I'll scream."

Erik sneered. So like her. To depend on others to get her out of a situation she had gotten herself into. "And? Remember, girl, I can snap your throat within seconds. No one would hear you scream." He could snap her neck; it would be so simple, so easy. He would never have to hear her whine again. And, better yet, she would never be able to call on Raoul and tell him nasty little things so he'd pull away from Erik.

She lifted her chin a little. There was a whimper along the undertones of her voice as she said, "You told Raoul you would do nothing to me."

His sneer pulled into a cruel smile. "As you know, lies are so very easy to tell," he whispered, leaning closer to her. She flinched from his words and leaned away from his body; her eyes darted around frantically, searching for some sort of savior. His grabbed her chin with his free hand and forced her face towards his. "No one is going to save you."

She stared wide-eyed at him, face scrunched in his large hand; then she started flailing—nails digging into his arm, basket smacking into his knees, elbows knocking into his side. With a huff, he gathered her in his arms and pulled them into the nearest alleyway. A prostitute, dressed in soiled lace, made a face at them and sauntered into the street.

Once, he had wanted Christine like this, all sensual curves pressed against him; only now could he see that it would be _exactly_ like this in that she would have fought against him then. Raoul on the other hand… He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind and concentrated on Christine.

"Stop it, you silly girl," he snapped, arms wrapping more firmly around her. Slowly, she stilled, breathing heavily.

Fear making her words shake, she said, "You will let go of me now, Angel."

His eyebrows rose. So now she was calling him that? Stupid Christine. She _had _toknow better than that. "That is not what you called me earlier when speaking to the Vicomte." He laughed.

She thrashed against him again for a few seconds. Then, as she slowed, she said, voice shrill, "I had to warn Raoul. He believes he loves you!"

He leaned down and let his mouth drag over the shell of her ear as he spoke, taking pleasure in the way she shuddered and grimaced, "What do you know of love, you Delilah, hmm?"

She elbowed him. Then, thrusting her chin up in defiance, she cried, "I will know more of love than you ever will, you monster!"

Snarling, he gripped her arms and spun her to face him once more. "Yes, you, the one who strung both me and Raoul along, you know more of love. You, the one who threw away her dear Raoul, you know more of love than I." She scowled at him; in response, he scoffed. "You know more of love despite Raoul now loving me." There was something…warming, something wonderfully pleasant about saying those words aloud. No one had ever…

There must have been some sort of expression on his face that matched his thoughts because her scowl was replaced by a confused frown. "Raoul is just confused." Although the words were said firmly, there was something cautious in the dredges of her tone.

Now just taking a chance, he said, "No, he is not. He loves me." Then, childishly, almost cruelly, "Not you. He has all but forgotten you." He smiled at her, something that seemed to frighten her more than all his scowls and frowns.

But her fright disappeared in seconds and, surprisingly, she leaned forward to stare at him. "He loves you," she stated, brows furrowed. He scowled at her again, but she was not deterred in any way. When she frowned at him—not in fright, but more like exasperation—he gave a sharp nod. Then, eyebrows heading towards her hairline, she carefully asked, "Do you love him?"

Erik stared at her. Christine was supposed to be scared of him! Not asking him silly little questions like that! Completely baffled by the turn the conversation had taken, his grip on Christine's arms loosened.

Smacking his arms away, she poked him in the chest with each word, "Do you love him?" Her face was intent, eyes focused on him. When no response was forthcoming, she rolled her eyes and huffed. "It is a simple question, Phantom." It was the title that snapped him out of his daze; Christine was no longer playing the "Opera-Ghost-loves-me" card.

When she poked him in the chest again, he grabbed her hand and snapped, "That is none of your business, girl."

Instead of cowering, she frowned at him. Then, "Is that a 'no'?" She sighed lightly, looking at him from underneath her lashes, and said, "Raoul will be heartbroken when I tell him."

That—that vixen! Pulling on a frightening scowl, he towered over her, squeezing her tiny wrist. He was about to open his mouth, call her all sorts of names, tell her exactly where she could go, when she tugged her wrist sharply and snapped, "Stop it." When he just blinked confusedly at her (_where in the world had the frightened Christine gone?_), she just sighed. "Not only have you given your word to Raoul, but I have had to deal with worse than your _posturing_ in the ballet corps." She narrowed her eyes at him. "You are not fooling me anymore."

Then, slowly, smilingly, she asked, "You really do love him don't you?" Her eyes sparkled at him.

He let go of her. This change was strange and unsettling. He would definitely pick a scared Christine over this cheery, nosy one. Without any of his previous heat, he muttered, "As I've said, it is none of your business."

She just beamed up at him. Disconcerted now, he turned and started walking away. Christine's happy laughter and call of, "Raoul will be so happy!" echoed in the alleyway.


	33. Chapter 33

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 33**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **# 33- cologne; perfume; strange smells **  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13/R**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Raoul lifted the roses to his face and inhaled. So lovely. So…perfect. These—these roses, so much like the ones Erik had given Christine so many months ago in approval, in pride, in _love_—these would get his point across. Smiling, he drew the glossy black ribbon that held the roses together though his fingers. This ribbon, like the one Erik had given to him, the one that was placed in his pocket as a comfort, a reassurance, a hope that this would all go right.

He knew how plans could fall apart. And, although his plan was simple, there were ways this could all go wrong. The main way that this could all go wrong was obvious: Erik could reject him. Could laugh at him. Could brush it all off. Could threaten him. Could actually kill him.

Raoul swallowed and tugged nervously at his cravat; then, gently, he eased his hand into his pocket and ran his fingers over the edges of the ribbon there. The ribbon, the touches, the looks, the words…they all meant something, right? He knew Erik liked plotting and playing and scheming, but all of those things had a reason behind them…right?

He released the tight grip he had on the ribbon and buried his face in the abundant roses in distraction. So sweet. So right. Just like any other bouquet, just like any other token of affection and love. Lifting his face, he took a deep breath, hoping to release the tension in his stomach.

Over the thick scent of the roses, he could smell the lake. The light, clean scent of water…along with the thicker smell of mildew and mold that accompanied it. There wasn't just the lake-smell; there was also the rich scent of earth. It was underground after all, so it was to be expected. Heavy and dark, but appropriate. The vaguest smells of wax and sulfur—from all the candles—and ink and parchment and leather—from all the compositions—mixed easily with the scent of earth and lake and created a rather unique fragrance.

…One that had combined with Erik's own scent and had covered the cloak that Erik had lent him from what seemed so long ago. Raoul smiled slightly. That cloak had been warm, comforting. Pulling in another breath, Raoul took in the smell of Erik's home and the roses. His smile widened slightly.

Hopefully, Erik would accept his roses, would accept that answer…

(_Do you wish it to be a dream?_)

No. He did not. And he would tell that to Erik and hope for the best.

* * *

Erik scowled and pushed aside the painting covering one of the entrances to his home. When had little Christine grown a backbone? She had always cowered at the sight of him. Absentmindedly, Erik started heading down the tunnel.

Christine was sneaky, though, and just a tad manipulative. That combined with the knowledge of Erik's character she had probably gleaned from her time spent with Erik…along with his agreement to Raoul to let her live…and Raoul's acknowledgement of love…ah, damn it all. That had given her the backbone to start prodding at him. Christine definitely had her moments of vapidity, but she had some cleverness to her.

But now…Christine had been with Raoul…and he had flowers. Roses. She had declared that Raoul had loved him…and Raoul had once claimed that he was over his dear little Christine…but was that it? Did Christine have some other agenda?

After a second's thought, Erik had to discard the idea. Christine wouldn't have acted like she did at the end of their impromptu meeting had she had any schemes. For appearances, he had accepted the idea the idea that Raoul loved him. But did the boy mean it the way she phrased it?

Christine had once felt a sort of love for him, he knew that. Even though that love had turned to hate and fear, it had existed. Madame Giry held a certain love towards him to, but it was a sort of motherly concern, a sort of guardianship. But the boy…he was so open, so trusting, so full of _light_. Could the boy feel love for him? Did the boy feel love for him?

He had placed a question before Raoul already. Now, he would just need an answer for that question, and everything would fall into place.

He walked into his home…and stopped. Raoul was standing by the organ, unaware of everything else. The ghostly light of the lake and the flickering glow of the candles illuminated Raoul. Made him look exquisite. Like his very own angel. And, there, in his hand, a lovely bouquet of roses.

His very own angel. Here to either save him…or damn him.

* * *

At the crunch of gravel, Raoul turned, a smile already on his face. Erik continued walking, a unreadable expression on his face. The smile on Raoul's face faltered. Maybe…the conversation with Christine had angered Erik. He clutched nervously at the roses.

Erik stopped in front of him. "Did you want something, Vicomte?" A pause and his visible eyebrow arching upwards. "Or were you just searching for an easy way to get rid of Christine's presence?"

Raoul smiled slightly. Then, carefully said, "I was dealing with Christine just fine." Erik just frowned a little at that. Hoping that this would erase the frown, Raoul held out the bouquet. "I…These are for you."

There was a momentary pause as Erik just looked at him, a pause where Raoul fought the urge to fidget nervously, and then Erik took the roses.


	34. Chapter 34

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 34**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **# 1- cold hands; cold feet **  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13/R**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

The stems of the roses and the black ribbon wrapped around them were warm, so very very warm from Raoul's hands. Erik leaned down a little and inhaled. A rich, but light scent, sweet and tempting. It was the perfect scent for the loose blooms ready to blossom. Once they did, the scent would be thick in the air and heavy, almost but not quite cloying. He lifted the roses to his face, burying his nose in them. No one…no one had ever given him flowers. And Raoul, a witness to the insanity that had occurred before and after _Don Juan_ knew the significance of flowers, of roses, to him.

He looked up. Raoul was fidgeting, just a little, but still. It was, in particular, one hand in one pocket, twitching and moving. "What have you got there?"

Raoul's face, already red from his gift being received, turned an even brighter shade. His eyes went to the side, avoiding Erik's face. His mouth parted a little, as if he was going to say something, but then he firmed, mouth pressed in a thin line. "It's nothing," was mumbled, just enough to reach Erik's ears.

Erik let his arm drop, the roses at his side. He took a step closer to the boy, just enough to be in Raoul's personal space. The boy flushed an even deeper color, if that were possible. "Angel?" he murmured, voice pitched low, tone warm and gentle.

Raoul's eyes came up slowly. Then, after a moment of staring at Erik, he pulled his hand from his pocket. Dangling from his fingers was a simple black ribbon. Erik frowned at it. Why was it such a bother?

Raoul wrapped the ribbon tight around his fingers and quietly said, "This is the ribbon you gave me." He looked away again, clearly struggling for words. A slight cough to clear his throat and a few swallows to stall. "It…it is comforting," was finally said in a rush.

Erik desperately wanted to just reach over to the boy and pull him close. Something of the Opera Ghost's was comforting? This admission plus the roses made Erik want to sweep Raoul off his feet. Literally. And then lock him away somewhere where he would be happy and safe.

Another step closer, so close that their clothes were near touching. "I understand that. I have the ribbon I traded with you." Raoul smiled a little, but he only seemed to get more nervous. Erik lifted the roses once more, so that the scent wafted up to them. "And the roses, Raoul?"

Raoul gulped, gaze going to the bundle of flowers. A moment of silence where he just stared at the roses, another moment of where his mouth worked soundlessly, as if he were trying to search for the words to explain himself, and then a simple shake of the head.

Without saying anything, Raoul tried to get around Erik, tried to get away from the situation. But there was no way Erik would allow that. Uncaring (at the moment) if the roses got crushed, he grabbed Raoul's arms and glared at the boy. "Tell me, Raoul. Why did you give me the roses?"

There was no way the Vicomte would get around answering this. Christine's little act (along with her admittance of Raoul's feelings), plus the roses, and the ribbon…all of this had to lead to something mutually good. Raoul _had_ to answer; there was no avoiding this. Erik was so close…

Raoul sighed, looked him straight in the eye, and said, quietly, "I love you."

Erik let go of Raoul and took a step back. Raoul flinched, flushed, and started speaking. "I…apologize if my feelings are not to your liking, Erik. If…" A swallow and shaky exhale, and then continuing on quickly, "If my feelings are…inappropriate, I can always just—"

Whatever Raoul believed he "just" was going to do was cut off when Erik let the roses drop to the gravel, grabbed Raoul, and pulled him close for a kiss. Raoul's lips were dry but soft and his mouth was very very warm and so wonderfully pliant under Erik's. Then Raoul opened his mouth and Erik was swept away in heat and tongues and teeth and Raoul being tugged so close that Erik could feel each tremble that passed through Raoul's body. One hand went up to tangle in blond hair, to run through the soft strands, and the other went down, skimming along Raoul's side, feeling along the smooth cloth of Raoul's jacket.

Erik was…happy. This—the smiles, the kisses, the love, all freely given—this was what he had craved. And not only was he given all this, oh no; he gave, happily, all of this in return. There were no games, no tricks. It was a simple exchange.

Slowly, Raoul pulled back. His face was still flushed; along with that was the red, kiss-swollen mouth and the halo of rumpled hair and unfocused blue eyes. He was beautiful. Exquisite. Angelic. Erik leaned forward to kiss along the wonderfully curved jaw. His very own angel; never to damn, it seemed, and always to save. Raoul's breath hitched and then went out in a shaky rush. "This is no dream," he murmured.

Erik was the one to pull back now. "What?"

Raoul grinned, happily. "You asked me if I wanted to think of those other kisses as a dream. I do not. I want to remember them."

Erik tugged Raoul close again. "You are mine," he said against the warm warm mouth.

He was then distracted by aforementioned mouth for several minutes until Raoul pulled back again. Raoul lifted one hand from where it had crawled up to Erik's shoulder and placed it on Erik's cheek. His hand was cool against Erik's flushed face. "May I…," he trailed off, cheeks going red; Erik wanted to frown at that. Raoul was only allowed to blush when Erik put it there by kisses.

Erik did frown now. "Say what you want, Angel."

Raoul stared. "Angel?" he asked

Erik leaned forward to place a kiss at the corner of Raoul's mouth. "That's what you are, so I will call you be it."

Underneath his mouth, Erik could feel Raoul smile. Then, slowly, "May I take off your mask?"

Erik stilled. After a moment of tense silence, he gave a sharp nod. The cool hand moved to the mask and then gently, ever so gently, removed it. Then, carefully, the cool hand was back, tracing over the ridges and bumps of his deformity. Strange, to feel touch on that part of his body. Very very strange.

Raoul kept hold of the mask as he moved forward again and kissed Erik. Erik was rigid and unmoving against Raoul for only a moment, expecting to be shoved away, but then relaxed. This was Raoul. His Vicomte. His boy. His angel.

Bringing Raoul even closer, he pulled back only far enough to murmur, "My love," against Raoul's mouth before leaning forward and kissing Raoul again.


	35. Chapter 35

**Fandom: **Phantom of the Opera**  
Title: **Left to Chance- Chapter 35**  
Author: **secretsmile19 (livejournal)/moon maiden of time **  
Theme: **# 29- Affaire de Coeur (affair of the heart; love affair) **  
Pairing/Characters: **Erik/Raoul de Chagny **  
Rating: **PG-13/R**  
Disclaimer/claimer: "**Phantom of the Opera" belongs to Gaston Leroux; the musical was made by Andrew Lloyd Webber. This is not mine.**  
Summary: **It was not love. It was…just mere fascination. Really.

* * *

Christine lifted the bundle of daisies and brought them to her nose. With a frown, she set the flowers back down in their place. Yes, they were still very pretty and not wilting yet, but the scent was weak. They would not be worth the money she spent on them. Swinging her basket and humming, she continued her way along the stalls, fingers out to brush the silky-soft petals.

She was doing just fine, until, minutes later, she stopped, hand snapping up to her mouth. Sucking on her wounded finger, she looked at the stall. Of course. Roses. And one of the thorns had caught her finger, just enough to make it bleed. Carefully, she reached out with her free hand and brushed it over the soft petals.

She would never be able to look at roses the same way. It would always throw her back to months of madness and passion and operas written just for her by a damned angel. And yet…if things continued as they were, that would change. Giggling a little now, she smiled. It had only been two weeks since her incident with both Raoul and the Opera Ghost in the middle of the market. Something must have happened, something good, because the Opera Populaire always smelled of roses. Raoul usually had a bouquet in his hand when he came to the opera. And she had seen the Opera Ghost lurking in the shadows with a bundle of flowers in his hands.

They were so very adorable. Raoul, eager to love, easily gave love to the Opera Ghost, one who craved it. The Opera Ghost, taken by the easiness of giving love, gave love back in return. Grinning shamelessly, she pulled one of the roses from the stall and lifted it to her face to smell.

Better yet was that they both seemed happy. Raoul positively glowed when he came to the Opera Populaire- a more and more frequent occurrence lately. And the Opera Ghost was writing again. Beautiful, lifting songs that echoed their way through the cellars and resounded with joy in the large halls. The managers had complained (they were the only ones who did, actually, as everybody else admired the songs and were lulled into thoughts of a somewhat tranquil Opera Ghost) to Raoul about the songs interrupting rehearsals. Raoul had simply laughed in their faces (Christine was afraid that they would tell Phillipe and Raoul would be pulled away from the Opera by his older brother, but nothing had happened) and told them to be thankful that the Opera Ghost wasn't terrorizing them and to hope that the Ghost would be kind enough to write another opera for them. Then he had vanished, probably down to the cellars.

Christine put the rose back in the stall. It was beautiful, of course. But it was a little much for her. Humming, she continued on her way down the stalls.

* * *

Madame Giry flipped over the small card and read.

_Thank you for taking me down to the cellars that first time._

_Vicomte Raoul de Changy_

Tossing the card on the vanity, she lifted the large yellow flowers to her face; the scent was light but sweet. She would have to find a vase somewhere for them. Setting the flowers down, she eyed the card again.

The Vicomte was thanking her? For taking him down to the cellars? That had set everything into motion, so she could understand why he thought it necessary to thank her. But, oh, she still had to worry. The Vicomte might have been happy with the turn of events and she could hear Erik's joy in his music, but she still had to worry.

She had seen the Vicomte's devotion to love (although his love at the time had been Christine) and all had glimpsed Erik's obsession with his love, so they would be loyal to each other. But there was still the fact that they had been enemies once. And the fact that Erik was _mad_. Their relationship appeared to be a towering house of cards: one wrong move and the whole thing would tumble.

Meg bounded into the room and rushed over to mother. Being an inquisitive child, she snatched up the card and leaned over the flowers. "These are beautiful, mama," she said, eyes going from flowers to card to Madame Giry. "Are you going to keep them in a vase? I saw one earlier. It would do well with the yellow."

Madame Giry nodded once. "I will get it." She turned and headed for the door, when Meg stopped her with, "Do you think everything will be okay?"

She looked over her shoulder at her child. Erik was mad, but the Vicomte had shown himself to be insane. And they had only been enemies due to Christine; as far as she had seen, Christine was fully supporting whatever relationship was going on between the two.

With the smallest of sighs for her worry, she said, "I believe everything will be fine." She turned and walked out of the room.

* * *

His home reeked of roses. The flowers were strewn everywhere, all green and red and sometimes even dark pink (the boy insisted they were light red, but he insisted that his angel was, in fact, blind). Normally, all of the flowers would be annoying, as they got in the way of everything. But it was okay because, when the boy had to surface, he could look at the roses and be reminded of the dark blush that covered Raoul's face, the dark color of his mouth after many kisses, the dark red of the love bites he left…

He traced his finger along a darkening red-purple bruise on the edge of a hipbone. Seconds later, a hand batted at him. "That tickles," Raoul murmured, eyes closed, mouth turned up in a slight smile.

As much as Erik loved the color of red on his angel, he loved the dark gold halo of hair after being raked through with his fingers and the cream color of skin against black sheets more.

Smiling, Erik leaned forward to place a kiss where jaw met throat; Raoul, in response, reached out to pull Erik even closer. Then, "You're insatiable," from Raoul, quietly, laughingly said.

Erik frowned against the warm skin of Raoul's throat. "You should not be coherent enough to use words like that." Frown turning into a grin, he moved so he was above Raoul. "And you like it anyway."

Raoul laughed lightly. "Of course." He opened his eyes to give Erik a lazy once-over. "Who wouldn't?"

And as much as Erik loved the gold hair or pale skin, he was absolutely taken with the bright blue eyes. Those were his weakness. Now, if he could just make those wonderfully blue eyes go hazy with pleasure and desire…

His grin became mischievous as he leaned down.

* * *

Raoul was so in love with Erik's mouth. Not only did it house an alluring voice, but that mouth was able to naughty naughty things to him. Pulling back from the kiss, Raoul let out a breathy laugh. To think, he was in bed with the feared Phantom of the Opera. His Phantom of the Opera. His Opera Ghost. His Angel of Music.

…His Erik.

He reached up, drew his hand along Erik's face, and ran his fingers through the soft black hair. No masks here—figuratively and literally. Erik leaned into the touch, green-gold eyes darkening. He pulled Erik down into another kiss; he only pulled back to say, "I love you so much," against that naughty, wicked mouth. Erik pulled back, just the slightest bit.

And, here, this was the real reason he loved Erik's mouth: the edges turned up, slowly, almost hesitantly, into a smile—one free of evil, free of cruelty, and full of love.

Erik was pressing that mouth to him again, all over his face. "As do I, my angel." Raoul could feel the heat of the flush that overcame him from the endearment. Erik took in the blush and his smile became wicked. Raoul grinned and let himself be pulled close.


End file.
